


The End of the World

by FernWithy



Series: End of the World [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 116,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernWithy/pseuds/FernWithy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen-year-old Haymitch Abernathy has plenty to worry about - a sick mother, a decrepit house, an empty larder. The last thing he's worried about is the Capitol's choice to double the number of Games tributes in a Quell year...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Part One: The Quell Card**

  
  
**Chapter One**  
I climb a tree to take a better look at the tarp I just nailed down on the roof. It's not going to win any beauty contests, but I'm pretty sure I've got the whole gap covered. I didn't see anything up close, and there's no cracking or buckling that I can see from up here. It won't hold in much heat, but at least it'll keep the snow out of Mom's room.  
  
Tin would have been better. Lacklen found some tin in the trash bins at the mine last summer, and we used it for the last of the holes over the kitchen. It wasn't big enough to cover this one. He keeps diving into the bins to see if they'll throw out any more, but so far, the dirty, paint-spattered tarp is the best find he's had. There was no real reason to throw it out, so I guess the mine foreman, who always felt bad for Mom, left it there for him on purpose.  
  
Of course, I know what I really need. I spent an hour in the school library trying to find out how to fix the holes properly. Plywood, shingles, braces, big screws, tools other than the large flat rock I use as a hammer. Even when I start working the mines in two years, it'll take me forever to save up for things like that. It'd be easier to get married, apply for a new family house, then invite Mom and Lacklen to come live with me. Of course, if the government has to repossess it in this state, they'll make me pay for the repairs anyway, but at least Mom and Lacklen would have a real roof over their head while I scrounge.  
  
I can't quite stop my brain from calculating how much time I'll have to get a roof over Mom's head, judging by the bloody cloths she's been coughing into, and coming up pretty short on the two years before I can start working or get married. I push the thought away as hard as I can. If I start thinking about that -- about how she just keeps getting weaker, just like Dad did, about how she's told me that I may have to take on looking after Lacklen a little more soon -- then I'll freeze up. There's no time to freeze up.  
  
"Admiring your handiwork?"  
  
I look down and grin. Indigo Hardy is standing at the base of the tree, smiling the prettiest smile in about six districts. "Hey, Digger. You get the tessera grain sorted out?"  
  
"All set," she says. "I swear, if they lose my birthday down there again, I'm going to have it tattooed on their faces."  
  
I climb down a few branches until I'm clear to grab a low branch and just drop the rest of the way. I'm sure this would turn out very graceful, except that one of the strings holding my shoes together snaps when I land, and I end up stumbling into Digger and knocking us both off balance. She catches herself on another tree, and I catch myself on her. Which is more or less where I intended to end up anyway. I kiss her. Even after two years of going out on and off, I still can't believe she lets me do this.  
  
She smiles when I pull away to take a breath, and rubs a little spit off the corner of my mouth with her thumb. "There's mandatory viewing tonight," she says. "Is your television working, or are you going to come up to the square?"  
  
I wrinkle my nose and take her hand, then lead her toward the house. "Mandatory viewing? What for?"  
  
"House mother says it's probably the reading of the Quell card. Remember? You and your mom and Lacklen can come up to the Community Home, if you want to watch with me. It'll be warmer than in the square."  
  
We get to the door. I have to let go of her hand to open it, since the top hinge isn't... well, _there._ I pulled the pin last month and used it to secure a blanket to insulate Mom's wall. If I don't balance the top of the door and keep it where the hinge is supposed to keep it, it'll tip and not close right. "Are you sure it's all right with the house mother if we come? Because our television got a little doused in the big storm last fall. Kind of fried."  
  
"Oh, yeah. It was her idea. She likes your mom. And your brother." Digger grins as she goes inside. "Of course, she thinks you're more or less a lost cause."  
  
The smell hits right away when I go in, so I don't smile at her joke. I know it'll fade into the background soon, and Digger makes a great effort to not show on her face that she smells it, too. But it's there. It never leaves -- the smell of wood rot and disease and death. Now, when it's cold out, it smells like filthy bodies, too, because we only bathe when we can't stand to smell each other anymore. And I don't let Mom bathe in cold water, even when she wants to. If she catches a cold, she could die.  
  
From the back, I hear her coughing. She appears at the door to her room, moving aside the old, tattered blanket that covers it. "Indigo?" she says. "That you, honey?"  
  
"Sure is," Digger says brightly. "Figured you could use someone to talk to who can manage more than a syllable at a time." She glances over at the staircase (which leads to nowhere; the upstairs rooms fell in years ago, when Dad was still alive to fix the roof under them). "Lacklen -- what are you doing hanging upside down?"  
  
"Haven't got down yet," he says, and pulls himself up, tugging at the length of cloth that's tied around his ankles. He manages to get himself upright -- sort of -- and says, "Got my arms untied, though."  
  
Mom coughs again then frowns. "Haymitch, why did you tie your brother up?"  
  
"He told me to."  
  
"I do not understand you boys sometimes. Get him down."  
  
"No, I want to figure it out!" Lacklen says. "I've almost got it!"  
  
Mom gears up to scold him, but it comes out in a series of harsh coughs. She puts her pillow to her face, then hides it when she's done, like we don't know she's using it to catch blood. I cut Lacklen down and help him to his feet.  
  
Mom sinks down in her rocking chair. Digger gives her a blanket off Lacklen's bed by the fireplace. "I was just telling Haymitch -- mandatory viewing tonight. You can come up to the Community Home to watch with me. It's nice and warm there."  
  
"I don't know if I can get there," Mom says.  
  
I pick up her pillow, check it for blood (not too bad today), and say, "We'll get you there. We'll bundle you up in all the blankets, then me and Lacklen will just pick up your chair and carry you. Right, Lacklen?"  
  
Lacklen nods eagerly. "Yeah. It'll be just like that picture in the story book, where they're carrying the queen into town."  
  
"Are you sure you can do that?" Mom asks. "It's awfully long way to carry someone."  
  
Unfortunately, this isn't hard to answer. Mom's barely been eating, even when we do scrounge up food. I've picked up heavier logs lately. I tell her we'll do just fine, then set about making a fire in the fireplace. We're almost out of sticks to light it with, and I know that if she was feeling stronger, she'd say it was a waste when we'll only have to put it out in a few hours, but she's not stronger, and she doesn't argue. She just starts asking Digger about the Community Home, and what sorts of things she does there all day. Digger paints her a cheerful picture, saying they can have hot baths once a week, if they need them, and play games in the basement at night.  
  
"And you have enough to eat?"  
  
"Well, it's no Capitol banquet, but look me -- strong as an ox! And I only poach in the woods a _little_ bit." Digger winks and flexes the muscles in her scrawny right arm. She poaches more than "a little bit" to get decent food for herself and the others, and all of us know it, but no one says anything. "Tell you what. I'll give you a tour of the place before mandatory viewing."  
  
"I'd like that, Indigo. Thank you."  
  
I look at Lacklen, who's gone about six shades of green. Neither one of us has to ask why Mom's wondering about life in the Community Home.  
  
I put together something that resembles lunch. Digger brought us a rabbit last week, and we've been stretching out the soup ever since. I go outside and peel some bark from a pine tree to skin it for the edible stuff inside, and drop it in for a little substance. I throw in a few needles as well, along with a few handfuls of snow to stretch the broth. Sooner or later, the pine tree will die, and we'll be in real trouble, but for now, it gets us through the winter.  
  
Digger tries to beg off, claiming that she's not hungry, but I put a bowl in front of her and don't take any arguments. She eats it as hungrily as the rest of us. A couple of hard biscuits that Lacklen made from the last batch of tessera grain give us something to gnaw on.  
  
There's nothing really to talk about after we eat, so Mom asks if I'll read a story. I go to the battered old cupboard in the kitchen and get the plastic-wrapped box from the shelf.  
  
We weren't always poor like this. When Mom and Dad were both alive and healthy and working in the mines, we did as well as anyone else on the Seam, maybe even a little better for the brief time that Dad got a promotion for his blasting ideas (his drinking ideas put an end to that quickly). We own three books. No matter how much Dad was drinking, no matter how sick either of them got, there was never any talk of selling the books. There probably wouldn't have been any buyers in District Twelve anyway, but I'm pretty sure the subject never even came up.  
  
The first book is Dad's dictionary. It was a present from _his_ dad, and it belonged to his grandfather, and maybe his grandfather's father.  It's kind of falling apart, even though we take care of it pretty well. I guess it's mine, now, but I always think of it as Dad's. Sometimes, when he was so drunk that I can't figure out how he could actually focus on the little print, he'd pick out words and expound on what they "really" meant by reading the whole history of them out loud, even trying the older languages that they came from. Lacklen and I always thought that was funny. As drunken behaviors go, I've learned since, we had it pretty good. He yelled at his dictionary, but never at us. He never hit us _or_ it. He was just sort of happy and slurry and clumsy. Unfortunately, the clumsy part ended up with half the house going up in smoke when he tried cooking drunk, and the holes it left have been letting in lots of other things that keep eating the place up.  
  
The other two books are story books. Mom and Dad scrimped and saved so that Lacklen and I could each have one book for our very own when we were born. Mine's a collection of fairy tales called _Stories From Everywhere_. There's a picture on the cover of a boy climbing a giant beanstalk. Everyone told Mom that Lacklen was sure to be a girl, so they got him a book where a princess tells stories every night to her husband to keep him from killing her in the morning. The fact that there's a picture of a girl on the cover never fazed Lacklen very much, as far as I know.  
  
"I want the glass slipper one!" Digger calls.  
  
"You always want the glass slipper one. Mom? Which do you want?"  
  
"The one with the clever pig who builds a strong house," she says, which is _also_ the one she always wants. I don't ask Lacklen. He'll want the one from his book about the fisherman who finds a genie. Almost eighty stories between the two books, and we always end up stuck on the same three.  
  
I mark the one Mom says she wants, in case she insists, but I close my eyes and pick one at random from the middle of the book. It's about a girl with a burned face, who's the only one in her village who can see the Invisible Being, whose hunting bow is a rainbow and who rides a sled made of the Milky Way. It seems like a good mix, so I read it, and no one complains.  
  
When I finish, we bundle Mom up in her chair, and, after a little experimenting, secure some long branches to it. Lacklen and I lift her up way too easily, and the four of us head for town. Digger thinks it's her job to keep Mom entertained, so she talks about silly Capitol fashions she sees on television.  
  
"The whole thing was _feathers_?" Mom asks, more engaged in the conversation that I'd think she would be. "Wouldn't that itch?"  
  
"You should have seen the drawers that went with it."  
  
"They showed the poor girl's drawers?"  
  
"Made of fur. I can think of places fur would be nice, but that's not one of 'em."  
  
Mom laughs weakly. "My goodness, that's crazy."  
  
"Kind of pretty, though," Digger says thoughtfully. "The feather skirt. Not the drawers. The drawers were just silly. But the skirt had all kinds of great colors in it. There were giant blue and green feathers that looked like they had eyes on them."  
  
"Peacocks," I say.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Peacocks. They're a bird. There's a picture in my book, and I looked it up Dad's dictionary. They're these giant blue birds, and the males have big feathers with eyes on them."  
  
"I'd like to see a bird like that," Lacklen says. "Where do they live?"  
  
This might turn into an interesting conversation, but as we turn up the Seam, we stop talking. Mom tries to carry on, but Lacklen and Digger and I know better. Talking about peacocks (or stories or dictionaries) is just going to draw out our less than neighborly neighbors. They think it's the height of hilarity that Lacklen and I "put on airs," talking about books and other useless things, when we can't even keep the house dry. A pretty girl named Hazelle Purdy, who finished school last year and works in the mines now, used to put on an exaggerated Capitol accent and explain all the reasons why we weren't fooling anyone. She even found a poem I wrote for homework and read it out loud in that accent in front of half the Seam, then did a whole routine about how I was going to set fashion trends in the Capitol. Everyone would be holding their shoes together with string and good wishes, and no one's clothes would fit, and they'd all smell like they hadn't had a bath in six months. A couple of boys held me still so I couldn't get away until she was done.  
  
After that, I went to the library and got out some books about how to get away from anyone's hold, and I learned to fight. They don't do that to me as much anymore. I also don't wave red flags in front of them by talking about books and fancy birds. I leave that for my literature class, where all of the other students are merchants' kids from town, who couldn't care less that I talk about books. Most of them are okay, but their parents are pretty scandalized that a Seam kid -- and not just a Seam kid, but one of the Abernathys, the drunk's kids from the shack by the slag heap -- is sitting in class with their pretty, clean blond darlings and getting better grades. Dad and a few of my teachers (and, for some reason, the owners of the local sweet shop) had to fight with everyone in town to get them to let me keep taking the fancy classes, and Dad was pretty sick by then, so I have to stick with them.  
  
By the time we get to town, no one is trying to talk. Mom is shivering despite all the blankets around her, and Digger has donated her jacket to the cause, so she's also shivering. The Community Home is at the far edge of town, beyond the mayor's house, supposedly away from the bad influences of the bars and the Seam. We lift Mom up the front stairs, and Digger fishes for her key card to let us in.  
  
There are a few efforts in the entrance hall to make the place look cheerful. Someone has drawn a clown on the wall, and someone else did a family of rabbits. But the paint is peeling and blistering, and the pictures are distorted, and the dispirited toys that are jumbled in a box don't look like they're much fun for anyone.  
  
"Indigo?" The house mother, a middle-aged woman named Sae, comes out of a back office. "Indigo, you were supposed to be back an hour ago."  
  
"I know. We just got talking." She nods to us. "I'm going to show Mrs. Abernathy around, if it's okay."  
  
Sae takes one look at Mom and nods. "You have a look at anything you want, Rhona. Indigo will answer any questions you have. And if you'd like a hot bath, you just ask. We can make room for all three of you to stay the night, though we don't have breakfast enough for you in the morning." She gives Digger a significant look, and Digger shrugs. Winter is hard weather for hunting. She says Sae can stretch out anything she catches, but sometimes, there's nothing to stretch.  
  
"Thank you," Mom says. "Much obliged. If you have something that needs fixing, you ask the boys, and they'll take care of it." She heaves herself up out of the chair, and Lacklen and I move it into the television room, where several of the house residents are already waiting for mandatory viewing. Digger takes Mom toward the back.  
  
Someone tugs on my shirt. "Do you think they'll have to vote again?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The Quell. Last time they had to vote. If they have to vote, it'll be us for sure. No one's worried about us. Grown-ups won't vote for their kids, but we're no one's kids, and --"  
  
I hold up my hand. "I bet it won't be. Why would they do the same thing again?"  
  
"What, then?" a little girl asks. She's standing by a chair, wide-eyed and frightened, even though she's got to be five years away from Reaping age.  
  
"I don't know. Something obnoxious, I guess."  
  
"What if it's _younger_ kids?" she asks. "I think it's going to be younger kids."  
  
I'd like to say that it's impossible, but when it comes to the Hunger Games, I don't write much off. Every year, they grab two kids and send them off to die to punish the districts for something our grandparents did fifty years ago. When you get people who do that, most things aren't off the table, unless they wouldn't make good television. That's probably the only reason they don't just take babies. No one would be entertained by watching babies starve. They don't do much interesting in the process. I wish I didn't know that firsthand. Seven-year-olds, though? Sometimes, they do something interesting. I could see the Capitol deciding to Reap little kids, just because they're bastards.  
  
"They're punishing grown-ups," Lacklen offers. "I bet they say it _has_ to be people with parents to punish."  
  
"It's usually people with parents by accident," an older girl says. I know her from school -- Gilla something or other -- and she lived on the Seam until her parents died last fall. She's thirteen and definitely in the Reaping. Probably twice, since Community Home kids are required to take tesserae to keep the place fed. "It'll be something weirder than that, so it'll look different from other years."  
  
"Like what?" someone else asks.  
  
"Dunno." She looks at me. "You know stuff. What do you think?"  
  
"I think I’m not making guesses about the Capitol."  
  
"What was the first year?" Lacklen asks. "Maybe the fiftieth will be like the first."  
  
"It was rebels' kids," I say. "They just picked from the kids of the prisoners. We don't have any rebels now, so it can't be that."  
  
I suspect it isn't entirely true about the rebels. I've heard people muttering. I heard Dad muttering when he was drunk sometimes. I know that the Donner girls, who are in my history and literature classes, like to make statements that they think are very obscure, mostly about mockingjays and how they're alive despite the Capitol's intentions. I know Danny Mellark, probably the only guy in school who treats me like a regular person, takes extra tesserae to help people he doesn't even know, which is pretty rebellious around here. But in terms of what the Capitol thinks of as Rebellion -- adults with guns shooting Peacekeepers -- there really aren't any. Just a whole lot of kids who've been mouthing off a lot lately.  
  
Which isn't very smart, when I think about it. I keep my mouth shut, personally.  
  
We take seats on the floor near where we dropped Mom's chair, and watch the Capitol programming that's on before mandatory viewing. Gilla expresses the hope that they'll run an episode of _Plutarch's Lives_ , about a boy who changes his identity for every show and always solves all kinds of problems. I've never seen it -- it started after our television fried -- but everyone says it's the best show ever out of the Capitol, and it shows how one person can make a difference (yeah, really). Maysilee Donner was complaining in class that it hasn't been on for weeks, and, to Gilla's disappointment, it's not on today, either. Instead, there's a show about men's fashion. Apparently, we're supposed to be wearing feathers, too, and a bunch of painted up male models walk around looking like some weird half-bird creatures, with red feathered pants and boots that look a little bit like talons.  
  
I yawn. Capitol programming is universally boring, at least when I've been able to watch it. Mom's back by the time mandatory viewing starts. Caesar Flickerman has a little bit of a pre-show, catching up with last year's winner from District Two (his name is Brutus, and he seems to be enjoying himself), then President Snow comes out and announces the Quell, and picks a card from a box. Lacklen and I are playing hangman in the dust on the floor.

Digger pokes my back to make me pay attention. She doesn't bother with Lacklen. Lacklen can see something fine if it's as close as he is to the floor for our game right now, but the television is way too far away for him to make sense of anything but the audio. I think he just needs glasses, but then again, I may as well say that I think he just needs to go to the moon for all the likelihood of it happening.

I make myself look at the television.  Snow is looking very smug, but then, he always does.  "To remind the districts that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen during the uprising," he says, "twice the normal number of tributes will be Reaped."  He smiles tightly.

The coverage goes to frantic commentary, during which some brilliant Capitol mathematician deduces that this means there will be _forty-eight_ tributes in the arena.  People on the street are excited.  Reaction shots in the districts (not here, of course; they don't come out here unless they have to) show stunned people in their squares.  I look down and draw another hangman grid, and try to decide what word will most likely stump Lacklen.  
  
Mandatory viewing ends, and Sae turns off the television. "Is everyone all right?" she asks. "Anyone got a question?"  
  
No one does. I look around. The kids are all looking green, even Lacklen, who's twelve and doesn't have any tesserae, so he shouldn't need to worry. Everyone's chances are still pretty small, even with twice the number of names drawn, and nothing about it seems to suggest that they'll go after orphans particularly.  
  
Sae sends the little ones up to bed, and gets an empty room ready for my family. Mom and Lacklen settle in.  
  
I stay down in the television room with Digger.  
  
"Don't worry about it," I say. "It's two more, but your chances aren't really that much worse."  
  
"In District Twelve, it's worse," she says. "We have fewer people to start with, so the odds are worse. Now we're doubling." She bites her lip. "And I have six tesserae."  
  
"Six?" I shake my head. "Digger, what the hell were you thinking? You don't need to have six tesserae. You have to have one."  
  
"I took them for a couple of the little kids, and old Larkspur Blythe -- he doesn't have any family to take them for him, and he was starving. And I took over Azalea Sebolt's, too. She's sick. She wouldn't have a chance."  
  
I do the math quickly. One entry, because everyone has to have one. Times five, for her fifth year. Then six tesserae -- five times six. Her name will be in the Reaping balls thirty-five times.  
  
"You drop some of those next year, Digger," I say. "It's not worth it."  
  
"It's not going to help if I drop them next year if I get Reaped this year."  
  
"You won't. It's still out of thousands, when you work in everyone else's tesserae. The odds -- "  
  
" -- aren't very good however you look at it." She sighs. "Maybe I could win. Maybe I could get all the money, and we could have a house in Victors' Village, and your mom and Lacklen could move in with us."  
  
"You're not getting Reaped."  
  
She sniffs and looks out the window at the black night. "Don't you ever just feel like your number's up?"  
  
I always feel like my number's up. Tonight doesn't change that much. I open my arms and let her snuggle up beside me.  
  
It's no big deal.  
  
It's only one girl more from usual.  
  
They won't take her.  
  
They can't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Haymitch didn't pay much attention to the Quell announcement, District Twelve reacts with great anxiety about the double tribute.

We all get baths that night, since it's bath night at the Community Home and Sae's willing to look the other way on anyone who wants one. We all get six minutes to wash, and only three people use the water before the tub is re-filled. Most of the Community Home kids are cleaner than we are, so Lacklen and I arrange to be the last to use the tub on our turns. Mom gets a tub to herself because she's a grown-up, and also probably because I hear her coughing wildly in the water, which means it's likely bloody.  
  
By the time we get to the room Sae has given us, we are cleaned up and combed. Mom looks much better. She grins and tells me that I'm to stay in this room, and not go up to Digger's. This really doesn't need to be said. Digger has two roommates. Besides, there are certain facts of life in District Twelve that we've both decided ought to keep us in our own rooms, at least until we're allowed to make a little bit of money. Or at least until we age out of the Reaping, which, conveniently, is the same year. There've been a fair few times I've ended up jumping in snowbanks this winter, and Digger's only reluctantly come to the conclusion that she doesn't want to risk some poor kid's life on a few cups of parsley and pennyroyal tea. I don't mention this to Mom. I think she's happier imagining that she's just joking about the rule.  
  
It's warm and dry in the Community Home, and I go to sleep easily. I dream that the Quell card really read that every district would host its own Games, and every kid in the district would have to participate, all live on Capitol View. Digger and I climb the fence to get away, but then we're lost in the woods and there are mutts everywhere. Digger is carrying her baby brother, who starved to death when we were nine, just after her parents died, which was right around when Dad died.  She'd tried to pretend they were alive for weeks, but she couldn't keep things together.  We became friends when she ran to my house in tears because she couldn't wake the baby up.  
  
In my dream, the baby and all of our parents are alive and healthy, but the grown-ups can't help anyone in the Games. They're all in prison or something. Digger and I are on our own.  
  
I wake up when it starts raining, both in my dream and in the world. In the world, it's a miserable, freezing rain, driven by a howling wind that pelts the community home with nasty smacking sounds. I have a feeling I'll have more repairs to do back at home after school today. I hope Mom stays here and Sae finds a way to sneak her some food.  
  
Mom and Lacklen are still sleeping peacefully, since it's not even dawn yet. I go downstairs to the television room and watch news about the upcoming Quell. I try to do the math to figure out my chances, and Lacklen's, and Digger's. There are about eighty-five hundred people in District Twelve. Most are fifty or under. There are seven years when people are eligible for Reaping, so I figure it to be about a seventh of the population. Maybe twelve-hundred. But the older you get, the more entries you have to have, so there are more slips in the Reaping balls than that. Maybe five thousand. Then the tesserae, and who knows who's got those? I don't have the numbers I need, and it bothers me.  
  
I'm still trying to puzzle it out and make educated guesses when the Community Home alarm clock goes off, and the residents start tromping downstairs for breakfast. Since we were explicitly not invited, I go back to our room and get ready for school. My clothes feel particularly scratchy and dirty, with me being clean under them. Lacklen is grumbling sleepily about his clothes as well.  
  
Mom wakes up and says that she wants to talk to Sae after everyone has left for school. Lacklen bolts from the room.  
  
"I think I frightened him," Mom says.  
  
I sit down on a rickety chair beside her bed. "Maybe a little. He's really scared of coming here."  
  
"I want to make sure they don't take you out of your classes."  
  
I take her hand. "I won't let them. But you try to hold on, okay? I'll finish school, and I'll take care of Lacklen."  
  
"No."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You should have your own life. I don't want you to... " She shakes her head. "I don't want you to have to raise your brother. I think you'll both be better off here, after."  
  
I look at her, sunken deep into the pillows, her eyes bruised-looking despite a good night's sleep. I look down. "I don't want you to die, Mom. Could you please not die?"  
  
She smiles and strokes my hair. "I'll try, Haymitch. But I probably won't succeed. And I need you to know what I want. I need to know that you and Lacklen will be all right."  
  
"I bet they know how to cure this in the Capitol."  
  
"Maybe. But I don't see why they'd have needed to learn it. No one's breathing in coal dust in the Capitol." We sit there for a while, then she pulls her hand away and pats my arm. "You'd best get to school. I don't want any more tardy notes."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And don't worry. Today's not bad."  
  
I nod and leave without saying anything else. She says that most days before I go to school, even though it's patently not true on a lot of them. Every day when I get home, I wonder if it'll be the day I find her, still and cold, on the other side of the door. Just like Dad. It sometimes makes leaving in the morning a little hard, and I keep going back to check, which makes me late for school. She is _not_ happy with me when I do that.  
  
I meet Digger and Lacklen downstairs and we head off together in the rain. None of us has an umbrella, so we're pretty soaked when we get there. So's everyone else, though, including the teachers, so we're not exactly conspicuous.  
  
On any other day, someone would notice us anyway and make a clever comment about me finally getting a bath, but today, no one cares. People are talking about the Quell card, about what they'll do if they're called, about how it could be anyone at all with the double Reaping. Elmer Parton, who's the best in our math class, is trying to talk about what the odds are, and how no one's odds are really up _that_ much, but he hasn’t made any headway by the time the homeroom bell rings. Digger and Lacklen and I go our separate ways.  
  
My homeroom is filled with the other kids who take the elective classes. Maysilee Donner is prominently wearing a pin shaped like a mockingjay. She's worn it before. For some reason, she hoarded gold coins that she's gotten from Peacekeepers in the sweet shop, and she melted them all to make a pin. It's pretty enough, but the coins probably could have found better uses. She's reading a poem she wrote about how mockingjays survive everything the world throws at them. It has a beat to it, and some of the others are clapping along. Her twin sister, Kaydilyn, is singing a little bit as a background. Maysilee and Kaydilyn spoke to the school board when Dad was arguing for me to take classes.  Their parents were on his side. Maysie said I was the smartest person in elementary school, and I should be able to learn whatever I wanted. I don't know why their family cared, and she hasn't had much to say to me since we started taking classes together, other than occasionally asking me to clarify something I've said.  
  
I look at their friend, Ruth Keyton, who can generally be counted on to be more sensible. Ruth's dad runs the apothecary shop. She's probably the prettiest girl in school, other than Digger. She's staring out the window like she can't see or hear anything, as she usually does when the Donners get political. Her boyfriend, Danny Mellark, is trying to coax her into turning around. He gives up and looks up at me. "Hey, Abernathy. Guess you caught the news last night."  
  
"Not much choice."  
  
"How bad do you think it's going to be?"  
  
I shrug. "Elmer Parton says the odds aren't changing that much."  
  
"Yeah, but it'll be _somebody_. What do you think the Games will be like when they're killing forty-seven kids?"  
  
I sit down. "Pretty much like when they kill twenty-three, except twice. Plus one."  
  
Our homeroom teacher Mr. Chalfant, who also teaches history, comes in and puts his books on the desk. Quietly, he pulls out eight chairs and lines them up against the back wall. Two for every year that we've been in the Reaping, though he doesn't explain this. He pulls out four more, taking one away from Maysilee, and shoves them in a corner.  
  
He says nothing about this.  
  
"I've been instructed," he says, "to remind you that the Quarter Quell is a requirement of the Treaty of the Treason. Its circumstances are not to be questioned, or discussed in any manner until the Reaping and the Games, and then only as the Games are always discussed. Are we all quite clear on this?"  
  
We all make appropriate noises.  
  
He looks at Maysilee. "And Miss Donner, I highly recommend you revisit the rules on ostentatious jewelry in the school setting."  
  
Maysilee crosses her arms under her pin and glares at him.  
  
Chalfant takes attendance and gives us a two-question quiz on mandatory viewing to prove we all watched it, then the bell rings and we go on to classes.  
  
The instruction to not discuss the Quell has all the authority of a piece of wet tissue paper trying to block the rain. In math, Elmer Parton tries to explain that the second drawing will only have one less entry than the first, so the second odds aren't a whole lot worse than the first. At lunch, people are trying to guess who will be targeted and why the Quell is what it is. In physical education, people are talking about training, since the odds are much worse this year. In Chalfant's history class, we talk about the end of the old Roman Empire, even though we're supposed to be talking about the Sino-Indonesian wars. Now and then, the teachers go by and scowl, stopping the conversation temporarily. I guess it doesn't matter to them what the odds are. The odds are one in one that they're going to lose four students instead of two.  
  
"I wonder what they'll do if they draw the same name twice," Lacklen says on the way home. It's stopped raining, but the cold puddles soak through our shoes. "I mean, except for twelve-year-olds, everyone's name is in more than once, and they won't stop the Reaping to take all the duplicates out."  
  
Digger shrugs. "They'd probably just pick again."  
  
"Are they allowed to do that? Just keep picking until they get a name they can use?"  
  
"It's the Capitol," I say. "They're allowed to do pretty much anything they decide they're allowed to do."  
  
We turn down the Seam together. Sullen teenagers are throwing knives at boards. A few are wrestling, though not by any rules the team at school would recognize. Evert McKinley is practicing tying knots. As far as preparation for the Games goes, this is about as much as anyone from District Twelve gets. Lacklen wants to stop and watch for a little while, but I want to get back to the house and check on Mom, so we move on by.  
  
Mom is actually pretty chipper after a good night's sleep. The tarp I put up yesterday has held, and there's been very little leakage. (It's not totally watertight, so there's some, but it didn't rip and let through a torrent. Most of what came through got absorbed by the insulating material we've jammed up against the ceiling.) Mom has been mopping up what puddles there are. Someone from the Community Home must have brought back her rocking chair, because it's sitting by the fire like always.  
  
"Tell me about school," she says.  
  
"Everyone's talking about the Quell," Lacklen says. "I heard Ettis Carroll talking about the last Quell, and he said--"  
  
Mom holds up her hands. "There is enough talk about the Hunger Games. Tell me about _school_ , Lacklen. What did you learn today? Do you have homework?"  
  
Lacklen bites his lip. "Some. In math. But I couldn't see the problems to write them down."  
  
"Did you ask your teacher?"  
  
" _I_ did," Digger says, and produces a piece of paper from her bag. "Well, not me, but Daisy Conary, from the Home. She caught up with me at lunch and said she didn't think you got your homework. I think she's sweet on you, Lacklen."  
  
Lacklen blushes and takes the homework, scurrying over to his corner of the room to work on it.  
  
Mom grins. "Thank you, Indigo."  
  
"Well, I recommend the Abernathy boys as model boyfriends to all aspiring girls."  
  
I roll my eyes.  
  
"Well, you'll have no argument from me," Mom says. "Now, will you take Haymitch out somewhere and not let him worry about me for a few hours?"  
  
"Mom..."  
  
She raises her eyebrows. "Look at me, Haymitch. I'm clean, I'm rested, and I'm not coughing. I had a ride back home in a proper truck from the Community Home."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"I'm sure. Go out. Have some fun. And no Quell talk."  
  
"Come on," Digger says. "I have a place I want to be. You should come."  
  
I don't take much more convincing. Mom does look all right, and has moved on to start hectoring Lacklen through his math homework. Digger raises her eyebrows, and I shrug.  
  
We go back outside.  
  
"You don't mind being a little naughty, do you?" she asks, approaching the fence. It's supposed to be electrified, but it never is. "I best get Sae some meat, or she'll give me the stink-eye at dinner tonight."  
  
I frown. I've never been hunting with Digger before. I don't even know _how_ to hunt. She pulls up a wire on the fence and rolls underneath it. I follow. It's not the first time I've done this, but it's the first time I've done it without actually knowing why.  
  
"What are we doing?" I ask when we're a good distance from the fence.  
  
"You are going to practice with my slingshot. And you're going to teach me to get away from someone who's grabbed me. Then I'm going to hunt and hopefully catch something, and I'll teach you how to gut it."  
  
I raise my eyebrows. "So much for no Quell talk."  
  
"Haymitch, I can't stop them from Reaping either one of us, but maybe we can have a better chance if we practice something."  
  
"District Twelve never has a chance," I say. "Those kids from One and Two -- and Four, sometimes... there's no way they just learn that stuff between the Reaping and the Games. They've been practicing for years."  
  
"But we _have_ won. Duronda Carson won, back in the third Games."  
  
"Dumb luck. Have you seen those Games? She just got lucky. That boy from Four slipped and fell into the ravine."  
  
Digger crouches down and reaches into a hole at the base of a tree. She brings out a little canvas bag. "She also knew what she was doing. She did make it to second place before he slipped. She came to the Home once, just before she died, and she told us stories. She said it was scary, but if you keep your head, you can win."  
  
I decide not to push the subject where it's begging to go, which is that two years ago, Duronda Carson stopped keeping her head. I guess forty-four years of not being able to get a single tribute through on her theory of "keeping your head" finally got to her, especially with the last one being her twelve-year-old grandson. Or maybe it was living alone out there in Victors' Village. Whatever it was, she hanged herself from an oak tree behind her fancy house out there. The official story is that she fell out of the tree and broke her neck, but everyone knows what really happened. Why would a woman fifty-nine years old be climbing a tree to fall out of in the first place?  
  
Digger gets her slingshot from the bag and spends a few minutes teaching me the mechanics of it, then an hour growing increasingly dismayed at my utter inability to hit anything. After a while, she mutters that she needs to try and catch something, and disappears with the slingshot for half an hour, instructing me to sharpen her hunting knife while I wait. She comes back with raccoon. She generally dresses her kills back at the Home (Sae can apparently stretch out the innards for a good distance), but she wants me to practice being precise with a knife. My skills here are more satisfactory to her, though she doesn't believe I could do it if she'd brought the raccoon back alive.  
  
"I've killed things," I say. "Lacklen makes traps in the back yard. Got some squirrels and mice and stuff.  And sometimes squirrels come in through the walls. I can do it, if I have to."  
  
"And if they're not trapped?"  
  
"What do you want me to do, Digger?"  
  
She sits down heavily. "I don't know. Maybe this is dumb. Maybe it doesn’t make a difference."  
  
I realize something and say it before I think. "You're actually scared."  
  
She glares at me. "Yeah, I'm scared. Of course I'm scared. They're going to pick four of us this year to go and die. Why aren't _you_ scared?"  
  
There's not a good answer for it. I could talk about the odds, like the Capitol people do. I could talk like the more paranoid people around here do, and point out that the Capitol doesn't have any reason to pick me -- or Digger -- so I don't have to worry. The truth is just that I have about a million other things to be scared of -- Mom hacking out her lungs a chunk at a time being the biggest of them -- and there's nothing left in me to be scared over whatever the Capitol's up to.  
  
I don't say any of those things. I just shrug. "Guess I figure what'll happen will happen."  
  
"Well ain't _that_ philosophical," she says.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
She looks at me a long time, then rolls her eyes and leans back against a tree. "Has it got some kind of special name? Like Exo-whatever-it-was that you told me about?"  
  
"Existentialism," I say. "I don't know. I think probably. I don't remember reading it anywhere. Just seems sensible."  
  
"I can't believe you learn words for thinking in school."  
  
"I didn't. Well, I did learn it in school, but not in class. It's just a book I was reading at the library."  
  
She smiles fondly. "If I get Reaped and then win, I'm buying you a whole library of your very own just so you can tell me the names of the things I'm thinking about."  
  
"Why don't you buy one for yourself?  
  
She laughs at this idea, as she always does, but doesn't explain herself. She just thinks the idea of her taking "fancy" classes or learning fancy things is self-evidently ridiculous for some reason. She tips her head back and closes her eyes. "You know what else I'd buy?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"A red dress."  
  
"A dress? You?"  
  
She opens her eyes and looks over at me. "Not just a dress. A _red_ one. _Bright_ red, the kind that sort of glows when it's cloudy out. And a bright blue one, and a bright green one."  
  
"Why?" I ask.  
  
"'Cause I'm tired of gray. Even when we have colors, the homespun makes them gray, and the dust makes them grayer. The reds are gray. The blues are all gray. Even the grass is gray from all the coal dust. If I was rich, I'd never want to look at another gray thing in my life, except your eyes."  
  
I smile. "But they'd make the cut?"  
  
"Well, it wouldn't hardly be worth it to be rich if I couldn't have _that_ , at least." She smiles. "That would be your cue to come over here and kiss me, if you're wondering."  
  
I scoot over to her tree, avoiding the raccoon guts, and kiss her. She settles into the crook of my arm and slides her arms around my waist. "What would you do?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"With money."  
  
"Oh. Get Mom to the Capitol and make them give her new lungs. I read they could do that."  
  
She sighs. "Pretend your mom has been magically cured and Lacklen has glasses, and I'm well fed and all the little orphans have been happily adopted and we've re-built your house. Come on, what would you buy just for yourself?"  
  
"Dunno. I only ever had two luxuries."  
  
"And what are those?"  
  
I grin. "My books, and my girl."  
  
"I'm a luxury?"  
  
"Well, _I_ feel spoiled, anyway."  
  
"Come on. Something you can buy."  
  
"I'd probably ask you what I should get."  
  
"I'd tell you a fine suit or two. And a pocket watch."  
  
"A pocket watch?"  
  
"Yeah. So you'd stop being late to half your life." She grins. "Besides, watch chains are sexy."  
  
I raise my eyebrows. "Watch chains?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Very sexy."  
  
"All right. I'll buy myself a fine suit and a pocket watch. I'd buy you whatever makes you happy."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"This is a test, isn't it?"  
  
"I gave you imaginary presents. Now I want to unwrap mine."  
  
The first thing that comes to mind is the prettiest, biggest ring I could find for her, but it's not time to mention something like that. "Well, I'd... I'd give you those dresses you want. Didn't know you wanted them, or I'd have said that right off. And books with all the poems you like best in them -- "  
  
"You'd still say the poems out loud, wouldn't you?"  
  
"Of course I would. I'd have time read them to you all day, if you want."  
  
"I want."  
  
"And maybe a solid jacket and umbrella for when it rains. And a fine hunting rifle."  
  
"That's what I love about you. Out here in the woods, all alone, and you're thinking about arming me."  
  
"What can I say? I'm always worried about bears eating you out here."  
  
She laughs. "Of course, if you bought a rifle, they'd just take it away. Maybe a bow and arrow. There's someone around here who makes them. I've found a couple when I'm out."  
  
"Just left around? Aren't they afraid you'll steal them?"  
  
"They're hidden in logs. But everyone who comes out here knows that everyone else who comes out here needs to. Might leave a note sometime, though, to see if we can do some trading business." She smiles sheepishly. "I did try it once, though. No one was around. So I shot an arrow. Took me forever to find it, and it was nowhere near where I meant it to be. I put it all back."  
  
"They were just in logs?" I ask.  
  
"Yeah, why?"  
  
"I don't know. Just asking. Wonder if there are any hidden in town."  
  
"Nothing to hunt in town," Digger says. She looks up at the sky. "It's getting late," she says. "We should go back." She puts the gutted raccoon in her game bag, then reaches down for my hand. I stand up beside her, and she leads the way back to town.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The frantic speculation about the Quell is interrupted by the arrival of news from the outside world.

For the next couple of weeks, I'm glad our television isn't working, even more than usual. The Capitol may not want us talking about the circumstances of the Quell, but they certainly want us talking about the Games. There's news every day that even I hear, with the gossip in the halls in school.

There's speculation about the arena, and whether it will be bigger, to accommodate all the tributes like a normal year, or just more deadly, so the extras die quickly. After a week, there's confirmation that the arena will be larger this year to accommodate the Quell.  Of course, nothing specific is said about it -- it could be a large cage or an ocean.  Digger says if it's an ocean and the tributes are stuck in canoes, she'll row for some shore and see where she ends up.  "I'll send you a note in a bottle," she promises, holding the door steady while I try to improvise a new hinge.  "You can come live with me on a beach somewhere."

"I doubt it'd be that easy," I say.

"Why?  It's got to end somewhere."

"Yeah, and it's probably mined or something, like the ground when the tributes first come up."

"There can't be mines everywhere.  I'd take my chances."

"And end up with just the two of us dying of old age on a beach?"

"Maybe we'd have kids."

"Which brings up even more disturbing implications about being there alone."

She makes a face.  We get back to work.

In school, people comb through magazines and television reports, and go back through previous Games to try and figure it out. There were big arenas in several games -- the first was huge, and the seventh, and then a string of big ones for the thirtieth through the thirty-eighth.  The troubles of finding food and shelter and getting rid of other tributes who might be miles away are duly discussed.  Personally, I wouldn't go looking for other tributes.  Sounds like a good way to get killed.  But I don't say anything, since most of them want to have high kill counts if they go in, because that gets sponsors who send gifts.  There are a few people who look kind of green while they make these boasts, and I doubt they'd be able to do it if the time came.

Our regular escort, Ausonius Glass, has been promoted up to District One. They call it a "transfer," but no one is fooled. An escort retired, and now they've got some new man out in Seven, and we get Seven's escort, Pelagia Pepper. This is a major topic of conversation among the girls, who look at her dresses. (Digger likes them; Kaydilyn Donner does not.)  Tansy Mathers, whose sister died in the Games last year, says it's a good thing -- apparently, Glass spent ten minutes on the phone tormenting her parents about how district kids deserved to die to pay for the uprising. Anyone, she says, would be better. A teacher hears her talking about this and shushes her very quickly.  
  
The stylists are being accosted about their plans for the parade and interviews. Like every other year, this leads to speculation about what they'll do with us. Not that this is much of a mystery -- they turn us into coal miners every year, though they somehow forget to have us bleeding from our lungs.  A few girls come up with better costumes than we'll probably end up with, but that's not saying much.  
  
I try to stay out of it, but Lacklen's hanging on every word, and has worked himself into a complete panic. Usually when he does this kind of thing, I can count on Digger to jolly him out of it, but she's been sucked in almost as much. She's going through her handful of possessions at the Community Home, telling me to memorize where she wants them to go. I let this run over me, for the most part, though I have repeated nightmares about carefully distributing all of her things (and sometimes her arms and legs and fingers and toes).  I try not to show her how much it annoys me, but I end up not spending as much time with her as I usually would.  
  
Mom tries frantically to distract Lacklen from the Quell and me from her cough, but she doesn't do very well with either of us. She finally takes to just ordering both of us to talk about and do other things. I don't feel like I should. She tells me that my lurking around the house on the deathwatch makes her feel worse, and she'll be healthier if I do something else. This doesn't make me feel less guilty, but I do try to obey her.  
  
Even the school library, which is usually pretty deserted, is crowded now. Games tapes have actually been put on reference so that people don't check them out and keep them, and the librarian, Mr. Crockett, has taken to playing them for the late study period every day. People are taking notes. All of my usual reading spots are full.  
  
I don't like to bring my school books home -- too much chance of the roof leaking on them and me having to pay for them -- so I take to going to the school's auditorium and doing my reading in the half-dark of the audience section. The drama club has a play rehearsing, but without the sound system on, I can ignore them, and for the most part, they ignore me. Danny Mellark always says hello on the way in, and Mirrem Murphy always takes a moment to wrinkle her nose like she simply can't be expected to breathe properly around me. The others, I don't know. We move in different circles.  
  
All I can tell about the play is that in involves Mirrem wandering around looking lost and heartbroken. She does it pretty well. You'd never guess that she doesn't actually have a heart.

At least they're not talking about the Games.  
  
About two weeks after the reading of the Quell card, Danny stops on the way out of the auditorium and says, "You finished with that story for lit?"  
  
I look up. "Which one?"  
  
" _Vanishing Air._ "  
  
"I read it a week ago. They blow up the jets in the end."  
  
"I know. I read it last night. You working with anyone on the project?"  
  
"I never work with anyone."  
  
"Want to work with me?" He shrugs. "I hate working alone."  
  
"What about your girlfriend?"  
  
"She and the twins are doing the volcano story. Maysilee's trying to turn it into a big symbol. Ruth's trying to convince her not to."  
  
"Why? It _is_ a symbol. Didn't you hear Chalfant talking about the Sino-Indonesian war? The Toba thing is supposed to be about the nuclear strike."  
  
"They didn't end up _having_ a nuclear strike."  
  
"That's because the volcano went off. Symbol -- no matter what the governments did, everything blew up in their faces in the end."  
  
"Yeah, but... the twins are getting a little political. They want to talk about repressed district anger or something. Maysilee wants to be mayor someday. That's not going to happen if she keeps tweaking the Capitol's nose." He shifts his bag to his other hand. "So, are you going to do the project or not?"  
  
I shrug. "I don't work well with people. And your mom doesn't like me."  
  
"She's fine with you as long as we don't get into Dad's stash." He grins. Both of our mothers decided we were bad influences on each other two years ago when we drank half a bottle of the white liquor his dad hides away. They're both right. He provided the liquor. I provided the dare. It was just before Mom's cough started to get bad, and she yelled at me loud enough for the whole Seam to hear. I'm sure the town got a good earful from Mrs. Mellark, too.  
  
Mom's forgiven Danny now, mostly because he atoned by cleaning our oven, which kept the smoke out of the house for months. Dannel Mellark is maybe the only merchant kid in District Twelve who could get away with coming to our house with no consequences. Everyone manages to get along with him, no matter which part of town they're from. Even the Capitol liaison's kids treat him like a person.  Hell, even Mirrem Murphy doesn't treat him like dirt on her shoes, though that's not exactly a big prize.  
  
I agree to do the project with him, mainly because it has to get done anyway. I'm better at thinking up theories about the stories. He's better at impressing the teachers in presentations (though our grades are about the same on written stuff). More to the point, it's not about the damned Quell.  
  
I stash my things for the night, then meet Lacklen by the door and tell him to go straight home and check on Mom. If she needs anything, he's to come get me at the bakery right away. I start giving him a list of instructions about what to check, but I see his eyes glazing over. He lives with her, too. He'll know if there's an emergency.  
  
I feel a little guilty when Danny and I leave school. If Mom dies and I'm off writing a lousy report about engineers having an argument about jet engines and the damaged atmosphere, I'll probably go crazy. But I can hear her voice in my head most times, and she'd probably be the first one to tell me to put the effort in. Dad did not drag himself out of his death bed to go and argue with the town council to get me into classes just so I could do a half-baked job on my homework. I've heard the line before.  
  
We're about five minutes out from the school when it starts raining again, and by the time we're passing the train depot, it's too wet to walk. We duck into the little shelter where presumably people used to wait for trains, when they were actually allowed to leave. It's a tiny, broken-down room made of plastic, long-covered in mold. The tiny porch area, where people waited, is overgrown with creepers, and the tiny window is cracked in several places. There's a big fence blocking the way to the track now -- a gap at the bottom betrays where adventurous kids have snuck out for years -- but we can see the train that's unloading cargo.  
  
"Wonder what they're bringing," I say.  
  
"Dunno. But there better be raisins. Mom ordered raisins six months ago. We haven't been able to make hermit cookies."  
  
I smirk. "It's a tragedy for the ages."  
  
He turns, irritated. "It's not like _we_ eat them. The mine chief and his family like them, and a bunch of Peacekeepers. We're losing money because they don't want to buy anything else."  
  
" _Okay._ "  
  
"It's so stupid. There used to be wine country just north of here. Maybe a hundred miles. I bet there are grape vines going crazy up there. We could bring some down, plant them, and dry them out for as many raisins as we could eat. You can cook the grape leaves, too. They're pretty healthy."  
  
There's no more to say about this than there is about Lacklen needing glasses. It all may be perfectly true, but there's not much point to wishing for it. The difference between Danny and me is that he keeps wishing anyway.  
  
I go to the window and look out at the train. It's not the fancy kind that takes tributes away. Just a cargo run -- rusty and spewing coal smoke. It's probably picking up more than it's dropping off. A burly District Six guy a couple years older than us jumps down from a car a few down from us and slogs through the mud, head down against the rain. He opens the door of the car nearest us and jumps up.  
  
A minute later, a ramp thumps down from the dark recesses, and the man pushes out a crate on a dolly. He drops it in the mud very close to the fence, then shoves the ramp inside and closes the car. He looks nervously around and whips a small pry bar out of his pocket. He quickly pops off four nails, leaving the side closest to us free to open, then pounds the top twice and runs off down the length of the train.  
  
"What's that all about?" I ask.  
  
"What?"  
  
I gesture Danny over to the window and he looks out. It's small enough that I have to step away for him to do it. I start to tell him about the attendant's behavior, but suddenly, he climbs down and says, "Give me a hand, Abernathy."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Just... come on. Before the checkers make it down here."  
  
He doesn’t wait for me. He ducks out onto the old porch and is under the fence before I can even yell for him to stop.  
  
The crate is moving. Something is pounding faintly and...  
  
I stop.  
  
A small, pale hand is grasping at the open edge.  
  
Danny looks over his shoulder. "Come on," he hisses.  
  
I look over my shoulder, then roll under the fence.  Adults always warn us that someday, they'll turn the fence on, but no one remembers ever hearing it powered up.  They can barely keep the Peacekeepers' electricity on.  Warming up miles of fencing is way beyond what they have the power to do.  
  
I reach Danny, who is trying to talk to whoever is in the crate.  There's no answer.  Between us, we manage to yank the front panel all the way down. I look down the track. The Peacekeepers are all gathered around the cargo dump, about seven cars down from us. The rain is masking our sounds.  
  
I look back at the box.  
  
A teenage girl falls forward, unconscious, from a pile of hay.  
  
Danny grabs her and drags her to the fence. I hold up the wire so he can push her through. When he does, I see that her back is covered with bloody lash marks.  
  
The cargo is almost fully unloaded.  
  
"Haymitch!"  
  
I look at the crate. Open, facing the fence, with blood spots that seem very bright in the gray, almost glowing, like the dress Digger said she wanted to buy.  
  
"Get her inside," I say. "Just do it."  
  
I don't watch to see that he does. I go to the crate and pull out the bloodied hay. I shove it under the fence, then try to flip the panel back up. It doesn't hold.  
  
I do the only thing I can. I turn the whole thing over, jamming it into the mud at a skew, like it might have fallen off on its own. I toss more mud at it.  
  
There's no time for anything else.  
  
The train whistle blows. I roll under the fence, grab the bloody hay, and dive under the cover of the old depot.  
  
Outside the window, I see a pair of Peacekeepers jog up to the crate. They pull out some hay. One of them laughs. I can't hear much over the rain and through the window, but I catch something about "District Ten" and "horses," so I guess the ruse worked.  
  
A few minutes later, the train starts to move.  
  
I don't look away from the window until it is gone, and the Peacekeepers have returned to whatever duties they supposedly have in town.  
  
"Haymitch," Danny says.  
  
I look over my shoulder. "What?"  
  
"Haymitch, she's really hurt."  
  
I look down at the girl, almost forgotten in the rush to cover up her arrival. Danny's got her cradled in his lap, and she's breathing shallowly.  
  
"What's wrong with her?" I ask.  
  
"Whipped, it looks like. Then I don't think she had much air in there. I have to get Ruth." He sets her down carefully. "You watch out for her. Don't let anyone in."  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
"No idea. Does it matter?" He runs out into the ran again.  
  
I sit down beside her. She's my age, maybe a little younger. She blinks up at me. "Water?"  
  
I go to the door, check it quickly, then stick my hand out and catch some rain. I run back to her before it slips away and pour it over her lips.  
  
She swallows, then coughs. "Thank you."  
  
I sit down on the floor beside her and try to think of something to say. Finally, I come up with, "Hi."  
  
"Hi," she whispers.  
  
"I'm Haymitch. Are... are you from District Six?"  
  
She nods.  
  
"You're in District Twelve. Did you mean to be here?"  
  
She shakes her head -- it's a dumb question, I guess; no one means to be in District Twelve -- then her eyes slip shut. I put my hand over her mouth and feel a flutter of breath. I have done this too many times in the last year.  
  
I don't know how long I sit in there with the District Six girl, hoping she won't die while I'm alone, before Danny comes back. Ruth Keyton is with him, and so are the Donner twins. Maysilee is wearing her pin on her rain coat. Ruth is carrying the satchel she drags around when she's treating people. If you want to know everything there is to know about District Twelve, it's that the apothecary's sixteen year old daughter is the closest thing we have to a doctor.  
  
"When did she pass out?" she asks me.  
  
"A couple of minutes after Danny left. She didn't tell me her name. She's alive."  
  
Ruth nods and kneels down beside her, feeling for her breath the same way I did. She presses a hand to the girl's forehead and draws it back quickly. "She's burning up. Those cuts are infected. Kaydilyn, give me the feverwort. Best I can do for now. I have to clean the cuts."  
  
"You want Haymitch and me to leave?" Danny asks.  
  
"What for? "  
  
"Aren't you going to take her shirt off?"  
  
Ruth rolls her eyes. "She's got nothing you haven't already seen a few times, Dannel." A drop of rain makes it through the roof, and she looks up like it's become her mortal enemy. "And try to keep that off her, will you? Take my rain jacket.  Hold it over her. Haymitch, Maysilee, take my bowls and catch some cleaner rainwater outside. We'll get this all cleaned up."  
  
She's so firm in her order that I find myself obeying without thinking about it, which almost never happens. Maysilee Donner and I fish out two stainless steel bowls from her work bag and go outside together.  
  
"She always like that?" I ask.  
  
Maysilee holds her bowl out to catch water. "When someone's sick, yeah. Do you think that girl's going to die?"  
  
"Yeah. I don't think rainwater and feverwort are going to do much."  
  
"I wonder where she was going."  
  
"Not here," I say. "That's all I know."  
  
"Could be anywhere. The kids in District Six sometimes..." She stops talking and looks at me strangely, then says, "I hear they sometimes just ride the rails to see where they can go."  
  
Whipped up like that, I doubt the girl was playing around, or delivering some kind of secret message that only Maysilee Donner can hear, but I don't say it.  
  
I haven't thought of what I _should_ say, really, when a tearing scream comes from inside.  
  
Maysilee and I grab our bowls, half-full, and run in.  
  
The first thing I notice is that Ruth looks completely overwhelmed. The girl from Six is writhing on the floor, her back up, now whimpering. Her shirt has been pulled away and cast to one side, and her back seems to be boiling. Bright red stripes criss-cross her skin, all of them swollen and oozing some kind of blood and pus and clear... something. I don't know what it is.  
  
Ruth raises a shaking hand and says, "Water." I hand her the bowl and steady her hand as she brings it down. She takes a few sharp breaths, then says, "Kaydi, there's a white cloth in my bag." Another breath. Her voice becomes calmer. "I'm going to start cleaning. You help me."  
  
"I -- I can't..."  
  
"You get down here, Kaydilyn Donner, or so help me, I'll make you sorry for it."  
  
"Ruth -- " Danny starts.  
  
"And you. I'm still getting dirty water in here."  
  
He nods and tries to spread the raincoat further. I signal him to hand me the other end, and we spread it out over Ruth and the girls like a tent.  
  
"Maysilee, I need you to take your water bowl and make a tincture, like I showed you, with the feverwort. We have to kill the fever. Tea would be better, but there's no time."  
  
Kaydilyn sits down beside Ruth and hands her a cloth soaked with rainwater. Ruth takes it and touches it to the girl's back.  
  
She tries to stifle a scream.  
  
"I know it hurts," Ruth says gently. "But we'll get you fixed up. We have to clean it."  
  
"No... no... want to go home..."  
  
"We'll get you home, but you can't make the trip like this."  
  
"I'm... so stupid..." the girl says. "Thought I could go... Thirteen..."  
  
"We'll get you back to Six," Ruth says.  
  
"They'll kill me. Inciting riots. They whipped me. I ran." She turns her head, then gasps. "Mocking... jay..."  
  
Maysilee looks up from the tincture, startled. The girl is looking straight at her. "Yes," she says. "It's a mockingjay." She takes the pin from her coat and presses it into the girl's hand.  
  
The girl holds it and her mouth twitches, almost smiles. "It... always... lives..." Her hand goes stiff and she starts jittering in place, her jaws clenched, a strange, keening sound coming from her throat.  The pin falls to the floor, and Maysilee scoops it up.  
  
"She's seizing up," Ruth says. "Kaydi, catch her..."  
  
There is nothing we can do. Kaydi catches her, Danny and I drop the coat and try to hold her still so she doesn't hurt herself, but the seizure doesn't stop.  
  
At least not until everything stops.  
  
With one last throe, the girl freezes, her eyes wide open. Then it's over.  
  
Her body relaxes onto the floor.  
  
Ruth puts her hand in front of the girl's mouth, then listens at her chest. She doesn't say anything.  
  
We stay there for a long time, Danny and I holding the raincoat over the huddled girls, three living, one dead. Ruth finally lets us put it down, but insists on staying a little longer because, she says, sometimes people only _seem_ dead.  
  
But there is no change.  
  
At last, Kaydilyn says, "What are we going to do with her?"  
  
"We have to bury her," I say. "If they find her here, they'll ask a lot of questions."  
  
The rain has stopped while we've been here, and we know that if we don't do it now, we never will.  
  
Maysilee goes outside and checks for Peacekeepers. The coast is clear.  
  
We all go under the railroad fence and over the tracks into the woods. No one has a shovel, but the muddy ground is easy to pull up by the fistful. With five of us working, it takes an hour to get a two foot grave dug. Water is already pooling at the bottom.  
  
We set her in it. I start to cover her up, but Danny says, "Wait... I... just wait, all right?"  
  
He ducks back into the depot.  
  
The girls and I don't say anything to each other. We're dirty and tired and we don't know each other very well. A few minutes later, Danny slides back under the fence, a piece of paper clasped in his hand. It's a drawing of a mockingjay -- quick and not very detailed, but a mockingjay nonetheless. He leans down to the grave and puts it in the girl's hands.  
  
We cover her.  
  
Go back under the fence. Get our school bags.  
  
There is no talk of doing homework. We look at each other, then head off our separate ways.  
  
When I get home, Mom asks how the project went.  
  
I tell her we didn't get much work done because we got stranded by the rain, which is why I'm so muddy.  
  
Lacklen asks me to tie his wrists, so he can practice getting away.  
  
I do it, then go into the kitchen and get dinner started.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the death of the District Six girl, Haymitch keeps his distance from his town friends.

I stay away from my town friends outside of school for a while. They're staying away from each other as well, as much as they can (which I guess isn't as easy for them as for me, given that the Donners are twins, and Danny and Ruth are dating). I know I keep having nightmares that a wild animal digs up the girl's grave, or another rainstorm washes away our shallow coverage, and suddenly the Peacekeepers show up, accusing us of killing her. I guess they're probably having the same kinds of dreams.  
  
This means spending time with Lacklen and Digger, who are still worrying about the Quell, which has never seemed more distant to me. Lacklen starts building more and more complex traps back behind the house, defying me to notice the triggers. I'm not sure if he's practicing building traps for himself, or trying to make me practice getting out of them. Either way, I find myself frequently hanging upside down or stuck behind branches that he's sprung into cages. This turns into a game, and I trap him back. Usually when I do this, I don't take advantage of his poor eyesight, but, as he reminds me, other tributes won't have any compunctions about doing this, so I work with it.  
  
After a few days, Digger realizes that something is wrong beyond the Games. She takes me out into the woods, and I tell her everything. She promises to keep an eye out for any disturbances around the grave.  
  
"You go out on that side of town?"  
  
"Sometimes. I've been looking for our bow-making friend. I think I know who it is."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Do you know Glen Everdeen?"  
  
"By sight," I say. "Big guy, next year up?"  
  
"Yeah. One of the bows has a tree carved on it. Like a black and white, really simple one, you know? He has the same one drawn on his notebook. I know he sometimes sneaks food into the home, too -- he's friends with Hobart Lapley -- so he's definitely a hunter."  
  
I think about it. "Never heard a bad thing about him. Maybe he'll do business with you."  
  
"Maybe." She bites her lip. "Speaking of business... I ran into him at… I went to the apothecary."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I went out and gathered up some carpenter's grass and traded it with Ruth Keyton for some pennyroyal tea." She waits for the meaning of this to sink in, then touches my face. "I _want_ to, Haymitch."  
  
I shake my head. "Look, I thought we agreed -- I mean, no offense to Ruth, but that's not exactly surefire. There's women who drink pennyroyal tea and end up having babies anyway. We’ve talked about it. Neither of us can take care of a baby."  
  
"There's girls who swear by it! You just drink it after and, well, no baby." She sighs. "I just... if I get Reaped... I don't want to go away knowing that... you know... that we didn't..."  
  
"You're not getting Reaped," I say.  
  
"You keep saying that. But you don't know. You have no way of knowing that. It's not like you can do anything about it if they call my name. Only another girl can volunteer for me, and none of them would. And I wouldn't let them. Or you, if you could."  
  
"Fine. Let's say you get Reaped. Let's say you get pregnant and _then_ get Reaped."  
  
She pales, then shrugs with exaggerated casualness and says, "I think we can be pretty sure they'd take care of that problem before I ended up in the arena."  
  
"I don't want to take chances."  
  
"And I don't want regrets."  
  
She kisses me and touches me, and for a little while, we manage to distract each other from the Games, from the District Six girl's grave, from everything else going on around us. We don't quite end up trusting our lives to a cup of tea, but it's a closer thing than usual, and I'm glad that a cold spring rain is coming down as we head back for the fence.  
  
I kiss her goodnight when we reach the street that leads back to the Community Home, and just stand there in the rain, watching her, until she disappears from sight.  
  
I go home. Mom is having a bad evening. I go outside and gather rainwater, boil it over the fire, and throw in some pine needles. I tell her to breathe it in. Sometimes it helps. I think mint leaves would be better, but I don't have any. I need to ask Digger to find some.  
  
I want to ask Mom if she'd trust pennyroyal tea, but she's in no shape to think about things like that, not that she likes to think about it when she's not having a bad day. For the first time in years, I wish Dad were around, so I could casually ask him if he'd ever heard anything good or bad about it. He'd probably be drunk enough that he wouldn't remember me asking in the morning, which would be a plus. I lie in bed at night and imagine the scene as well as I can. Dad, crashed in his old wooden rocker, the one he broke falling down on it about a year before he died. He's sitting by the fire, drinking white liquor, and I'm sitting on the floor, tossing wood chips into the flames. I ask him about the tea. He laughs and says, "Things getting a little heated with that Hardy girl, are they?"  
  
I allow that this might be so.  
  
"Well," he says inside my head, "I can't say I ever heard of a girl going wrong with it.  Can't say I ever heard of it going exactly as planned, either. Why, my cousin Fenella wanted to give it a try when things were getting het up with her boyfriend, and..."  
  
And then he'd launch into some funny story about some old relative who bought the wrong tea and ended up loopy on it, and we'd never get around to what I'm actually asking.  
  
I stop imagining. Dad probably wouldn’t have given me a straight answer, anyway. I guess I have to keep trusting my gut. I wish it would tell me things I'd rather hear.  
  
I go to sleep listening to Mom coughing and Lacklen crying (thinking no one can hear him, probably). I dream about Digger coming to our house, carrying her dead baby brother, only I have it in my head that it's not her baby brother she's carrying. I get up before dawn and start patching a gap in the kitchen wall where mice and bugs have been getting in.  
  
The next day, Danny Mellark comes to the house, insisting that we do our homework. He's also been allowed to bring four raisins (which were, indeed, on the train for his mother), and we each have one. They're very sweet. I have no idea if they taste like grapes, since I've never had a grape. Danny hasn't, either. Mom eats hers in three tiny bites, and she savors each one for a long time. She's having a better day. Lacklen doesn't like them.  
  
We go back to Danny's place in town, since I don't have the book at home. I have a feeling it isn't about our homework, though we manage to put together a very lazy presentation about the story, since it's due tomorrow. Danny will do most of the talking. I do most of the writing. That means we'll probably get a good grade.  
  
He finishes the last panel of the display, drawing an eagle symbol on the side of a jet, then sits back and says, "They haven't found her."  
  
I look up. I don't care how fine Danny's house is, or how water-tight the living room windows are. I don't trust talking about the girl anywhere on this side of the fence. I look away deliberately. "You think we should put in something about the people who say the atmosphere's recovered and we should be able to have jets again?"  
  
"No. The Donners want to meet in the stationery shop tomorrow night. Their uncle puts up with it."  
  
"Those guys are kind of nuts," I say. "Maybe the atmosphere's all right, but who knows how to make jets anymore?"  
  
"They could use someone with good sense."  
  
I roll my eyes. "Anyone with good sense isn't going to meet with anyone."  
  
He lets it go, and we put a few finishing touches on the presentation. We talk about jets, and about the story that people once walked on the moon. Danny's not sure he believes it, but I've seen pictures in the library, and it looks like the science part of it should have worked, anyway. Judging by the pictures, there's not much up there, and at the moment, we'd do better to explore the out-districts twenty miles from the fence.  
  
"Wonder if it's still radioactive from the war," Danny says.  
  
"Chalfant says they didn't use nukes in this half of the continent."  
  
"Do you think it's true?"  
  
I shrug. "Probably. No point in winning a war if everything left glows in the dark."  
  
"I guess. I hear Thirteen had nukes, though."  
  
"Those, they definitely didn't use. Not during the Dark Days, anyway. There were just the ones the Capitol dropped on Thirteen."  
  
Danny frowns. "We're just about on top of Thirteen here, aren't we? Shouldn't we have had fallout?"  
  
"We're not _that_ close." I look up. "What's with the radiation talk?"  
  
"I don’t know. There's just something weird about it. The story doesn't track."  
  
"Yeah, some editor missed the boat with history. The plot's all screwed up." I grin.  
  
"Don't you want to know what she was talking about?"  
  
I don't answer. Of course, a part of me wants to know what the girl from Six was talking about when she said she was going to Thirteen, in about the same way I want to know if the fisherman who found the genie in Lacklen's book ever pulled the bottle back out of the ocean. It's a useless bit of knowledge, what fairy tales a dead girl believed in. That doesn't mean it's not interesting. But unlike the genie story, following up on this one is more likely to end up with a whipping than a good grade on a lit paper. There are questions it's better not to ask in Panem.  
  
Danny's mother invites me for dinner, but I know she doesn’t really mean it. No one means things like that in District Twelve. No one has extra food to spare for the neighbors, not even the merchants. I thank her and tell her that my mom expects me.  
  
When I get home, Mom is cooking dinner and I accidentally spring one of Lacklen's traps, which lands me flat on my back with the drawers of our dressers out over my head. He's placed them on either side of the door and put a tripwire between them to tip them and put the drawers out at angles. He jumps out from where he was hiding and pokes at me with a pine branch.  
  
"Fine, I surrender," I say.  
  
He rolls his eyes. "You can't surrender in the Games, Haymitch. How are you going to get away?"  
  
"If someone gets me good, then I guess I _don't_ get away."  
  
Lacklen rights the dressers and slams the drawers shut. "You're not even trying."  
  
"I'm tired."  
  
He grimaces and sits down on the couch, where he sleeps. "I figure my best bet is to stake out a place and booby trap the way to it, so I can hear if people are coming, and catch them before I have to be able to see them. Then I can just -- you know, beat them -- without my eyes being a problem. What would _you_ do?"  
  
"Sounds like a good enough plan," I say, though a million things could go wrong with it, starting with not being able to find a place to hide and going on to getting caught in his own traps and starving to death in them.  
  
"Haymitch, come on. What would your strategy be? How would you stay safe?"  
  
"There's no safe place in an arena. Come on, Lacklen, you know that. As long as you're in the Games, you're not safe. I don't care how many booby traps you make. And you're not getting Reaped, so you don't have to worry about it."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"I'm not getting Reaped, either. I got tesserae for you and Mom and me, but that's nothing compared to some people."  
  
"But if you do, I want you to live."  
  
"I want me to live, too. So if I end up in the arena, I'll think of something."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Sure. Did you do your homework for tomorrow?"  
  
"Did it in school on Friday."  
  
"It's getting warmish out. You could probably do with a bath."  
  
"I'll take a bath if you tell me how you'd get out of my trap."  
  
"They're not going to have dressers in the arena."  
  
"How do you know? One time, they made it look like an out-district ghost town. There could be furniture. And houses that could fall down. And --"  
  
I laugh.  
  
"What?" Lacklen asks indignantly.  
  
"If they give me falling-down houses, I'm a shoo-in. I'll bet I know more about that than anyone in Panem. I'll just hole up in one and keep it together while everyone else's place falls apart."  
  
"How would you get out of my trap?"  
  
I think about it. "Kick up, if someone's right there. Send the dressers down on them. Get their weapons while they're disoriented. And... beat them."  
  
"What if it's me?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I was thinking -- nothing in the rules says it can't be two people from the same family. You and me. The Donner twins. It could be a boyfriend and girlfriend. They could take you and Digger. Would you kill her?"  
  
"No. And stop talking about that. It’s not happening. And if it did, I'd send Digger home, end of story. Same if it was you." I pull myself up off the floor and sit in Mom's rocker. "Now go take a bath. I answered your question."  
  
Lacklen heads outside to the pump, picking up the tub on the way. I start the fire.  
  
Mom looks over from the kitchen. "He's scared, Haymitch."  
  
"So why's he scaring himself worse, thinking about things that aren't going to happen?"  
  
"To see if he can handle them." She ladles out some thin soup made from a squirrel that got into the house and brings it over to me. She gives me a sniff and wrinkles her nose. "You could do worse than a bath yourself, for the record. I could, too."  
  
"It's not _that_ warm yet. Give it another couple of weeks. I bet it'll be warm come April." I poke at the fire.  
  
"I probably won't die from getting a little bit wet in forty-five degree weather."  
  
"Probably isn't good enough."  
  
"Now who's scaring himself?"  
  
I don't answer. The chance of me or Lacklen getting Reaped, let alone both of us, is next to zero. The chance that Mom's going to catch a cold and die is a lot higher, and she knows it. She watched Dad die, too.  
  
I take a bath after dinner and wash my school clothes for good measure, then go to sleep with them hanging beside my bed, dripping dry. I dream I am in the arena with the District Six girl, and she says she is going to escape and go to District Thirteen. "It glows in the dark," she confides, then it is dark, and she does, in fact, glow. Then she's Digger, and it turns into a different kind of dream.  
  
My clothes are still a little damp when I put them on the next morning, but it's raining again, so no one notices.  
  
Danny and I manage to get through our presentation in Lit without any major difficulties, then the Donner twins take over the rest of the class with their commentary on repressed anger. Ruth seems not to have gotten very far in making them hold back, though she does point out that the volcano killed everyone on both sides of the narrowly averted war, and quite a few people who didn't care about either side.  
  
They have exercise period outside, and we join the girls for running. The exercise supervisor, Mr. Mellon, has a whistle that he's very fond of.  
  
Digger keeps pace with me -- she's a good runner, and I'm not -- and she tells me she met Glen Everdeen this morning.  
  
"He says we can talk," she says, stopping and catching her breath. "About -- you know, things. Do you care if I meet up with him after school?"  
  
"Why would I care about that?"  
  
"Well, some boyfriends would at least pretend to make a fuss over their girls meeting up with strangers."  
  
"I trust you."  
  
She smiles widely. "You know, that's even better." She leans in and gives me a kiss, though I'm not sure what she's so happy about. It's not like I've ever _not_ trusted her.  
  
A whistle sounds. "Abernathy! Hardy!" Mr. Mellon yells. "You're at school, not the slag heap. Back to work!"  
  
We roll our eyes at each other and start running again, and head to lunch in the cafeteria, where we sit with a large group of other people who don't have any lunch to eat. These are mostly Seam kids, and the conversation is mainly about how they're never _really_ going to use the math that even they are required to take. Beech Berryhill, a kind of dimwitted kid who nevertheless works very hard to make his terrible grades, says that he's sure there's a reason we have to take it, and he bets there are plenty of places in the mines where people use math. When challenged to name one, he comes up blank, and looks at me like a trapped animal.  
  
"You have to be able to figure blast forces," I say. "And angles. If you hit the wrong angle, you could bring the roof down." I have no idea whether or not this is true. We make the field trip together every year, but I'm mostly concentrating on not breathing very deeply. I know Dad told me once that math was a good thing to have down there, but I wasn't listening when he said why. I'll have to work in the mines. That doesn't mean I have to be _interested_ in them.  
  
"Yeah," Forrest Hickman says, climbing up to sit on the surface of the table. "I bet they're all down there calculating angles and trajectories, and quoting Shasker at each other."  
  
"Shakespeare," I say.  
  
"Whatever. It ain't like you're going to use any of that fancy stuff down there. Don't know why you bother with it."  
  
"I don't use it in the sweet shop, either," someone says. I look up and see Maysilee Donner beside the table. "It's no more useful to a merchant than it is to a miner," she continues. "But we all have a right to it. It's our inheritance."  
  
Forrest snorts. "I'd rather inherit something useful, like money or tools or something."  
  
"To what end? You work, you eat, you die. What's the point?"  
  
"I can think of a few points I could give a fine looking girl like you."  
  
Maysilee grimaces and is about to say something -- I can see her bracing for it -- when Beech stands up and says, "You leave Maysilee alone, Hickman. She's always been nice to us."  
  
"Yeah," he says. "We're all such good pets. She can even watch Abernathy do tricks. Look -- you can train Seam kids to act just like people. Must be like watching a dog walking on its hind legs for them. Do they give you treats, Abernathy?"  
  
There is a flat smacking sound, which my ears register before my eyes accept that they've just seen Maysilee Donner -- a small, thin blonde girl -- slap a big, muscle-bound sixteen year old boy across the face. She stares at him coldly, then says, "You apologize to Haymitch."  
  
"It's okay," I mutter, looking away from her. She's more or less guaranteed me a beating if I don't watch my back.  
  
"No, it's not okay."  
  
"It's _okay_."  
  
"I think Maysilee's right," Digger says. "Just 'cause you're stuck here and stuck working in the mines, it doesn’t mean you can't be anything else. I mean, there's got to be more to life than what you do for a living, 'cause that would be pretty depressing."  
  
"Thank you, Indigo," Maysilee says.  
  
"It's Digger. I hear Indigo, I start looking for grown-ups." She smiles. "And don't pay any mind to Forrest. Some people have a chip on their shoulders. He has one in his skull in place of a brain."  
  
Maysilee smiles back and moves on.  
  
Adda Strong, a girl from the Home, shakes her head. "Digger, I can't believe you just made nice with a girl sparking your guy."  
  
Digger kisses my cheek, then rests her chin on my shoulder and says, "I trust my guy, and that means I trust who he decides to be friends with."  
  
I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't think it takes much trust. No one could really think that a girl like Maysilee Donner was actually sparking someone like me.  I can't believe Digger herself puts up with me.  
  
The bell rings, and we move on to our afternoon classes. I realize we've made it through a whole morning without anyone talking about the Quell.  
  
The afternoon isn't quite as successful. Odds talk happens in math class, and in history, Mickey Slattery manages to somehow bring the discussion of the south Asian exodus (following the same volcanic eruption Ruth and the twins turned into a symbol) around to the Games. It's a kind of tortured route, going through the ingathering and the strong presence of the diaspora in District Three, to the winner ten years ago, a District Three boy who electrocuted the remaining field, to questions about how many people could reasonably be electrocuted at once... what with forty-seven competitors to kill and everything.  
  
"Three of whom might be sitting in your class," Danny says, shaking his head. "Thanks for tipping us off to your strategy."  
  
The class laughs a little uncomfortably. With all the talk, that's one thing no one has really brought up -- that with four tributes from the same district, there's a good chance that, even if one comes home, he or she will have killed friends and neighbors to get there. After history, I have a study period, and I do what little homework I have in the auditorium while the drama club has a technical rehearsal. Their show will be next week. They have to do it before the Reaping, in case half their cast ends up speared.  
  
I wait for Digger at her locker after my last class. I find Glen Everdeen, a boy I haven't had much of a reason to talk to over the years, waiting for her as well. He doesn't torment me or Lacklen, and he always seems to have a smile for people, but our paths just never intersected before now. All I really know about him is that he has a great singing voice. They're always getting him to sing the national anthem at school assemblies, and sometimes someone will get out a fiddle or a dulsy down on the Seam, and he'll sing at the top of his lungs. I'm rarely at these gatherings, but I've passed close enough to hear him once or twice. These songs tend to be miners' songs, of the sort that wouldn't be allowed anywhere near a school assembly.  
  
"Hey," I say.  
  
"Hey." He nods vaguely. "I, um... I ran into your girl over at Keyton's Apothecary. We were bringing in some herbs to trade. We just need to talk about a few things."  
  
"Yeah, she mentioned. I'm just here to... well, say see you tomorrow."  
  
"That better come with a kiss," Digger says, coming around me.  
  
I give her a little one -- it's a little awkward with a large future miner standing a foot away -- then let her go. They're talking seriously as they head down the hall.  
  
Since my homework is done, I wander home earlier than usual. Mom is surprised to see me. She hasn't bothered to get out of bed, and I wonder how many times she's barely managed to get up and dressed before I come through the door. I ask if she needs anything. She's embarrassed and cross with me, and tells me that she needs me to be outside and not acting like a mother hen. She promises not to die if I go out and get some fresh air.  
  
I find myself walking along the fence, a looping, strange path around the edge of town. For the first time since the day the District Six girl died, I end up at the train depot. I look around for Peacekeepers, then slip under the fence and into the woods where we buried her.  
  
I can definitely still see the mound, but it looks like any of the other small, uneven patches of dirt.  
  
Except that this one has been covered with little green sprouts of herbs. They seem kind of haphazardly mixed, some dark ones and some light ones.  
  
I frown and climb a tree.  
  
From above, I can see that the mix isn't haphazard at all.  
  
Someone has very carefully planted the herbs in the shape of Maysilee Donner's mockingjay pin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch finds himself drawn into Danny and Maysilee's group, while Digger finds a new friend in Glen Everdeen.

I’ve never been in the stationery shop. I don’t know anyone else who has, either, except for the Donner twins, since Mr. Donner’s brother owns it.  
  
I really can’t think of any reason why anyone _would_ go in. Once a year, we’re each issued a notebook for school -- teachers give out paper as much as we’re supposed to use for each assignment -- and that’s about all the paper anyone can afford. Everyone learns to write very small, and make that notebook last for every class all year. I’ve known people who finish it about halfway through, and they’re not issued a new one. They have to trust their memories. Personally, I have a system, little symbols to remind me of what the teacher says – kind of a code that makes sense to me, even though Digger thinks it’s gibberish. I can do a week of classes on one page. Last year, I had enough of my notebook left to try and write a poem or two. They’re scrunched up and hidden with the things we have stuffing the walls for insulation now, but I know exactly where they are. One of them was a sonnet about Digger, which was very bad, and the other was a free verse about my house, which was a little bit better, but would still be pretty embarrassing if anyone found it.  
  
At any rate, no one has a reason to buy special paper to write letters and invitations on. No one writes letters to anyone, and as far as invitations go, in District Twelve, they generally consist of standing someplace and yelling, “Hey! Anyone want to come over?”  
  
Maysilee's uncle sees me when I come in and smiles. "Haymitch Abernathy, isn't it?"  
  
I have no idea where he knows me from, and that makes me nervous, so I just nod.  
  
"Kids aren't here yet. Dannel Mellark said he wasn't expecting you to come. They'll be pleased to see you. You can look around while you wait, if you want."  
  
"I, uh… did they say why they were coming?"  
  
"Homework, I guess," Mr. Donner says. "Maysilee likes it here. She's got her own spot in the cellar. I guess you could wait there, if you'd rather."  
  
Since I don't want to look like I'm here to leave dirty fingerprints all over Mr. Donner's inventory, I opt for the latter, and he shows me to a door that leads to the cellar. The stairs are wooden and rickety, and there's a strange, cinnamon smell that I guess must be what dry old paper smells like, since it's piled up in yellowing stacks on shelves against the walls. It's not an unpleasant smell.  
  
I poke around in the old inventory, looking at boxes of pens that would cost Mom a week's salary back when she was working, piles of official stationery with the name of the last Capitol liaison on them, business cards for people who have been either dead or out of District Twelve for years. I don't know what Mr. Donner is supposed to do with all of this. There are even old reaping cards here, and a yellowing box of blank ones. I'm surprised these are even allowed in the hands of district people, but I guess they're not worried about last year's entries, and it's not like someone's going to steal the blank ones for anything. Probably Mr. Donner's supposed to package everything up and recycle it.  
  
Besides the personalized stationery, there are little blank books with cloth covers, embossed with the word "Journal." I open one up. There's a space for a date at the top of each page, and I guess people are supposed to write whatever they've been up to. I doubt I'll ever have enough going on in a day to fill a whole page.  
  
"Want one of those?"  
  
I look up. Maysilee is standing at the top of the stairs, grinning. "Uncle Herk's keeping that stuff so I can sell it to the recyclers and use it to pay the inheritance taxes on the place when he dies. So it's mine. You can have a journal if you want."  
  
I put it down. "No thanks. I was just thinking how I'd never use a thing like that. Anyway, won't you need it to pay the taxes?"  
  
"I can spare one journal. You can write me a poem in it."  
  
I shake my head and turn away from the shelves. "Danny said that… well, that everyone was…"  
  
She nods. "Yeah. Kaydi's upstairs. Ruth and Danny will be along once they remember it's time to stop groping." She rolls her eyes. "And we're expecting a couple of other people, too."  
  
"I thought it was about… you know. The girl."  
  
"We'll talk about her before anyone else gets here."  
  
"Someone planted herbs like your pin. I only came to say that wasn't very smart. We're not the only people who go to the woods."  
  
She frowns. "We _are_ the only people who know that poor girl is buried there. Someone had to mark it."  
  
"Was it you?"  
  
"Me and Ruth."  
  
I'm stunned by this. Ruth Keyton is probably the most practical town kid I know. When she gets here (five minutes ahead of Danny, so they were apparently not off groping), I ask her about it.  
  
She shrugs. "I don't like people dying on my watch. Besides, there's caring to do for the dead, just like for the living. You have to pay them some mind. You don't just stick them in a hole."  
  
"They're dead. What do they care?"  
  
" _You're_ not dead. It matters what you treat them like. Makes a difference about who you are."  
  
I decide to re-evaluate my opinion of her practicality.  
  
The girls and I nervously trade stories -- I don't recall ever spending time with just them -- until Danny sweeps in. He was at a final rehearsal for the show. "Who's coming?" he asks. "It ought to be good. You should see Mir." He takes off his jacket. "We should get her in on this. She'd be great at getting new people in. She can convince anyone of anything."  
  
Ruth snorts. "Little Miss I'm-Really-A-Capitol-Peacekeeper's-Daughter is likely as not to convince them to hang us all."  
  
"She's not that bad," he says. "I mean, yeah, she's kind of a bitch, but she's… she's okay, if you know her. If you were her friends, she'd be better."  
  
I don't bother answering this, and neither do the girls. Danny's a good guy, but he's not a very good judge of character. I hope he's not running around deciding who to trust, because one of these days, he'll decide President Snow's just misunderstood.  
  
I decide we've wasted just about enough time. "We need to rip out those plants," I say. "I get what you said, Ruth, but we can't leave it marked like that."  
  
"No one's going to see it unless they climb trees," Maysilee says. "We made sure it was big enough that you can't see it on the ground."  
  
"Yeah? Well, what about from a train? Those windows look pretty high up."  
  
Danny shakes his head. "There's trees between the tracks and the place we put her."  
  
"Trees blow down in storms. They get cut down. They burn." I stand up. "Do you get it? If anyone finds her there, they'll figure out who buried her, and they'll decide _we_ killed her."  
  
"How are they going to trace it to us?" Ruth asks.  
  
"How do you think? You used healers' herbs. It'll take about two seconds from them to find their way to the apothecary."  
  
"We can't just leave her there."  
  
"I get that. I know. I buried my dad, remember?" I shake my head and sit back down. "Danny buried the picture with her. Bury the damned pin with her if you want. But don't mark the grave."  
  
"What if her people come looking for her?" Danny asks.  
  
"They won't. No one's going to let them come looking for a girl who got whipped."  
  
"Maybe after we get rid of Snow," Maysilee says. "After that, maybe we can go looking for everyone who's missing. And if they come, and we can't find her -- "  
  
I stop her.  "After we… _what?_ "  
  
"Don't you understand? That's what she got whipped about in the first place! It has to be!" She shakes her head. "Haymitch, the kids from District Six have been riding the rails, telling everyone what's going on. Kids all over the country… they can't rule us without our consent! They can't keep sending us to arenas!"  
  
"The hell they can't!" My brain puts pieces together that I wish it wouldn't. "Kids all over the country?" I repeat.  
  
"Yeah… everywhere. Even in places like District Four. They had a rally in Seven. The kid from Six said they had about two hundred and fifty kids all up on a hill, singing and talking about the world without the Games. When the Peacekeepers broke it up, they fought back!"  
  
"And how many died?"  
  
"Just one. The others all got away. And in District Three, they knocked out the power plant. Some grown-up helped them, I guess. In District Four, they blew up a few of the mines around the Ghost Gulf, and a couple of kids got a boat through before anyone caught them. They're probably in South America by now!"  
  
"And when was this?"  
  
"A couple of months ago."  
  
"In other words, just before the Quell card. Just before the Capitol decided to kill off a lot more kids this year."   
  
Maysilee stops. "You don't think…"  
  
"No. I think it's just a coincidence that they decided to kill more kids when kids are starting battles with Peacekeepers and talking about getting rid of Snow. What do you think, Maysilee? That Snow's just going to sit back and say, 'Well, I guess I can't do anything about that'?" I stand up. "Those forty-eight kids they're going to throw in the arena can thank those two hundred and fifty in District Seven. And you." I turn to leave.  
  
Danny follows me to the stairs and turns me around. He's a big guy, and considerably stronger than I am, though I never heard of him getting into a fight. "Haymitch, that's _why_. Don't you get it? It's because he does things like that. That's why we have to do something. It's not _right_."  
  
"Well, as long as we all know that, we should just take care of it." I stare at him, but he doesn't budge. "Are you crazy? All of you?"  
  
"You didn't say that when my parents went to bat for you about the school," Maysilee says. "Everyone said they were crazy to do that."  
  
"That's just about the Seam and the town. The way things are here. The Capitol doesn't care about that."  
  
"You really think so?" She crosses her arms over her chest. "I think they care about it. I think the last thing they want is for people in District Twelve to stop worrying over who lives where and start worrying about who's really in charge. So they assign us decent housing, and always put one of us in the mayor's house so you get the wrong impression. And then they sneak in messages about uprisings so the shop owners don't trust the Seam. It's all so we're looking at each other instead of at them. Don't you understand that?"  
  
"I honestly don't think the Capitol feels all that threatened by anyone in District Twelve. We've got about eight thousand people. And what are we going to do, throw coal at them?"  
  
"We could strike," Kaydilyn says. "Cut off the coal supply --"  
  
"Most of Panem doesn't run on coal. Best we could do is stop a few trains."  
  
"Which would stop a whole lot of commerce."  
  
"Which they'd replace by putting it on the fancy electric trains!"  
  
"What do you think makes electricity?" Maysilee throws up her hands in disbelief. "They burn coal in the generators!"

I roll my eyes. "And if we cut it off, they'd switch to nuclear. Or solar. Or geothermal -- I hear they got tons of geothermal power in Five --"  
  
"And that's why we can't talk to other districts. If we could all strike at the same time, then Five could cut them off, too. The Capitol wouldn't stand a chance."  
  
This hangs in the air for a long time. Of course, she's right, in her "if" world. "If" we do this, then that will happen. "If" we can communicate with the other districts. "If" we can strangle the Capitol by cutting off imports. "If" the Capitol is as scared of this as she thinks.  
  
But her communication scheme is a bunch of kids from Six riding the rails. They could get caught any time. There's no regular meeting place. No way to get quick messages.  
  
And without any way to guarantee a win, there's no way to get any district to go along with it.  
  
I go back to the little circle, and everyone sits down. "Maysilee…" I start.  
  
"What?"  
  
I take a deep breath. "Maysilee, they don't pay the miners enough to have anything set aside. Money, food, anything. They go down there every day until they _die_ from being down there, just to keep their kids from starving. They're not going to risk it to make a political point for you."  
  
"It's not for me. It's for everyone."  
  
"It's not going to work. If we don't have a solid line of communication… If we don't…" I shake my head sharply, before I start coming up with scenarios. "It's _not_ going to work. We don't have anything we need for it, including the people."  
  
"We have more people than you think." She looks at the wall, where I see a beaten up old clock ticking away. It looks like it might have survived the Catastrophes. "They should be getting here soon. So, let's finish up about the grave."  
  
"You have to rip the plants up," I repeat.  
  
Ruth sighs. "Haymitch is right."  
  
I'm surprised, but I don't argue.  "Thank you."  
  
"I don't like it. But it's true. It's too dangerous. I'll get them."  
  
Feeling like I should also make some kind of concession, I say, "You could… I don't know. You could make some kind of mark so you remember where she is, but nothing anyone else would notice. Rock or something."  
  
Maysilee looks like she's about to start arguing, but Ruth raises an eyebrow at her. For some reason, this shuts her up.  
  
A few minutes later, other kids start to appear. We turn on a radio to make it sound like we're having a party and dancing, but we put it up near a window, away from us. Most of the kids are from town, but they've managed to bring in a smattering of Seam kids (all friends of Danny's, so I guess they _are_ trusting him). Some aren't even kids anymore. To my surprise, a youngish miner named Clay Hawthorne is among the guests, along with Onnie Chester and Elmer Parton from my math class. They're all with me about trying to do a strike without any proper communication from the other districts.  
  
"And weapons," Hawthorne says. "Even if we could get every district to do something at the same time, if we have armed Peacekeepers against unarmed civilians, we're not going to last long."  
  
This causes a lot of conversation, even though it's plain sense. The idea of nonviolent resistance is brought up -- that somehow, we're supposed to throw off the Capitol by sitting on our hands and refusing to play along with them. Some of them are caught up in the idea -- Kaydilyn talks about how it worked in South Asia, along with here in North America, according to the history books -- but Maysilee shakes her head. "That works against decent people who feel guilty about mowing down unarmed civilians. How guilty do you think Snow would feel? Come on, the guy kills twenty-three kids every year and turns it into a production number. He's not going to care if they tie us to the tracks and run a train over us."  
  
Somehow, in the middle of it, I feel a journal and a pen pressed into my hands, with a terse request to "Take notes," since Danny's are illegible and they know I study from my school notes pretty well. Mine are coded, so I don't think they'll like it any better, but at least I'll be able to read them at the next meeting, which is more than Danny can claim for his chicken scratching.  
  
I don't realize that I've somehow committed myself to attend the next meeting until we finish up, and Maysilee says she's going to walk home with me. It's raining again, so she wraps the journal in plastic and puts it in my hands.  
  
We're about halfway to the Seam when she says, "You were right."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About… the plants. The ones that are growing in the wrong place." She looks around ostentatiously, probably to remind me that we shouldn't talk openly outside her safe space. "Danny says you did really well with that box, too. The one… the one that…"  
  
"Oh, right. The one for his show, right?"  
  
"Yeah. That one. He says you set up just right to get the effect they wanted."  
  
"Someone had to."  
  
"That's why I wish you'd hang around with us more. I never seem to think about things like that."  
  
She glances up at me and blushes, and I think about what Adda said earlier, about her sparking me, and I realize with some astonishment that it might be true. "Um… Maysilee?" I say. "I have a girlfriend."  
  
She smiles. "I know. And I think she's about the luckiest girl in the district."  
  
"I think most of the district would disagree with you."  
  
"Yeah, well, that wouldn't be anything new." She stops and bites her lip. "I wasn't talking about that, anyway. It's just -- you should hang around with all of us more. And it would look funny if you started doing that, with Danny being your only friend. You could be friends with all of us."  
  
"I… I thought I was."  
  
She laughs. "You're an odd one, Haymitch." She starts walking again, holding her jacket up over her head to protect her from the rain.   
  
We walk down the Seam without talking. I probably shouldn't have let her come down here, but she didn't exactly ask. Maybe I should walk her back. The thought of the wagging tongues down here stops that idea cold.  
  
Just before we reach my house, she slows down again. "Haymitch?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Do you really think what you said? About why the Quell is what it is? Because of… you know… me?"  
  
"I didn't just mean you. I shouldn’t have said it like that."  
  
"Do you really think it?"  
  
"I don't know. For all I know, they really did write out all the Quells fifty years ago. I can't see where the last one did anyone any good. Maybe it's a coincidence."  
  
"But you don't think so."  
  
I look at her and think about lying. I don't. I shake my head. "I don't think so."  
  
She nods and turns away without saying goodbye. I watch her until she disappears into the rain. I hope I don't go into school tomorrow and find her with a black eye or worse.  
  
I go in. Mom tells me I'm late for dinner, but hers is mostly still untouched. Lacklen is begging her to eat. I beg her to eat. She finally manages to choke it down, then goes to bed. Lacklen and I listen to her labored breathing. Neither of us is very hungry.  
  
In the morning, she seems to be feeling better, though she asks for a sheet of paper from my school notebook so she can write a few things down. I have a feeling those things are instructions on what to do with all of her belongings, but she doesn't say so in so many words.  
  
When I get to school, I find Digger in the hall with Glen Everdeen, who is singing a ribald song about a tiger cat in the tall grass. Digger's laughing. She grabs my hand and invites me into Glen's little circle of friends.  
  
Suddenly, I seem to have a lot of friends. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with them all.  
  
The weather does get warmer as we head into spring, though it continues to rain almost every day, and the whole district looks like mud soup. The upcoming Quell finally fades into the background and people are talking about tests and break-ups and sports and Danny's show, during which Mirrem was upstaged by a falling spotlight, which she cursed at in terms even the miners admired.  
  
Digger spends a lot of afternoons out in the woods with Glen, learning how to shoot. She takes me out into the woods on weekends, mostly to tell me about how much she's enjoying it, and how it's totally taken her mind off the Quell. She and Glen have cut a deal for a bow (though it will require a lot of game), and he's teaching her to make arrows.  
  
I spend a lot of those afternoons in town with the Donners and Ruth and Danny and the others, pretending to talk about school, actually passing information around. I teach them the code I use for my notes, and everyone starts using it, claiming it's to save paper. A District Six boy comes on a train and tells us that there's been a crackdown in Nine after some of us -- and I have started to think of us as "us" -- burned a fresh-planted cornfield. Elmer Parton tutors me in math, but of course, the only person most of the school notices me hanging around with is Maysilee. Rumors start making the rounds.  
  
Digger ignores them for a while, and I ignore the rumors about her (Glen apparently has a history of doing pretty well with the girls), but they start to get to us, and we start arguing partway through April. I tell my town friends that I've had enough, and I need to fix things with my girl. We promise each other that there's nothing happening with our new friends.  
  
She brings up the pennyroyal tea again. I finally break down and ask Ruth Keyton how well the stuff works, and if she's ever heard of it going wrong. She says she hasn't. She has, in fact, used it herself. I decide that this is more than I needed to know.  
  
The news starts in on the Games in earnest as Reaping Day approaches. Gamemakers are interviewed. Historians go through the fifty years since the Dark Days ended, talking about the ever-increasing wealth and well-being of Panem under the kindly hand of the Capitol, and how we can never risk going back to the chaos of the world before. They make a great point of talking about the young leaders of the Rebellion, the firebrands from Thirteen who incited disloyalty among the rest of the districts.  
  
Of course, this starts people talking about the Games again. Lacklen re-doubles his efforts at booby traps, focusing on ones that make noise to help him find enemies. People in the cafeteria build mock historical arenas out of plates and re-enact old battles -- for educational purposes, supposedly -- with silverware.  
  
Mom's cough gets worse for a little while, but she will not allow me to worry about her. She says she's too tired to try and get me calmed down, and she's damned if she's going to let me be her nursemaid. She seems embarrassed by her sickness.  
  
Digger gets very quiet. She's taking her shooting seriously now, hoping that it could come in useful in an arena. She takes me to the woods toward the beginning of May and tries to make me learn to shoot, but I'm hopeless at it. She gives up. She doesn't want to be out here shooting, anyway. She wants to be out here not having any regrets.  
  
Two days before the Reaping, I give in. I am having nightmares that she's taken away. She's having nightmares that I am. We go out into the woods together, to a place near a lake that Glen has told her about, and we do our best to make sure neither of us regrets it. I tell her that I love her. She tells me that she loves me, too.  
  
After, we lie in the golden afternoon sun together, and we talk about the future, about what could be, if things weren't the way they are. She chides me for being too cynical. She also tells me that she'd like to spend the rest of her life with me. I am not averse to the idea.  
  
"We could start off now," she says as we make our way back through the woods. "Just make a run for it before the Reaping."  
  
"I can't leave my mom," I say.  
  
She nods. "I know. Just wishful thinking, anyway." She slaps at a branch. "I can't wait until the reaping."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I want it over with. In three days, we'll probably just come out here and have a good laugh at how much we're panicking."  
  
"Sure," I say.  
  
We start walking again. She is wearing my shirt. I am carrying hers. I think I will sleep with it close to me until the reaping is over.  
  
"Hey," she says, "say a poem to me."  
  
"A poem? Which one?"  
  
"The one with the funny words. Brillig and slithy."  
  
I laugh, and start reciting "Jabberwocky" to her. It always makes her laugh, even today, and I could live a long time on nothing but the sound of it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch and his family prepare for the reaping.

The next morning, Mom finds Digger's shirt in my bed while I'm getting breakfast, and we have an almost surreal conversation. Or, well, she does. I mostly just sit there, while she tells me that I'm not old enough for this kind of relationship, then presumes that I'm going to tell her it's none of her business, which she argues with, then assumes I'd say she can't stop me from growing up, and says she doesn't want to. After a while, she just sighs and sits down beside me.  
  
"You were careful?" she asks.  
  
I nod.  
  
She bites her lip. "I do want to see you grow up, Haymitch. Just not so _fast_." She sniffs. "Then again, maybe you'd best hurry up, if I'm going to see anything at all."  
  
"Mom…"  
  
She takes my hand. "You're going to be something extraordinary someday. My clever boy. I wish I could see it."  
  
I'm not sure what to say, so I just pat her hand.  
  
After a while, she sniffs and wipes some moisture from under her eyes. "I'm sorry. Sometimes it gets to me."  
  
"Me, too." I look at her. "Are you… okay with it? Me and Digger, I mean."  
  
She thinks about it for a long time, then makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. "I suppose. I suppose it's a little late to have an opinion one way or another. Do you love her?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"And she loves you?"  
  
"That's what she says."  
  
"Then that's that. We should have talked earlier."  
  
"I wanted to, but I didn't want to, you know --"  
  
"Bother me?" She shakes her head. "Haymitch, I'm sick, but I'm still your mom. Will you please let me be the parent? At least when you need one."  
  
"Okay. I'm sorry."  
  
She nods and shoos me out so she can make my bed.  
  
In the middle of the afternoon, she starts coughing, and it gets worse and worse all day. Despite her protests, Lacklen and I spend most of the night before the reaping up with her, trading out steaming pots of pine-scented water for her to breathe and mopping blood off of her face. By the time dawn comes, the coughing has subsided a little bit. We all look like hell. Mom orders me to sleep while Lacklen cleans himself up, and I obey, because my body won't allow anything else. Lacklen wakes me up an hour later to send me out for my bath.  
  
I grab some ashes for scrubbing, then go out to the cold-running stream behind the house. It comes down through the slag heap, so it's not the cleanest water, but I use it to scrub off most of the accumulated grime, not to mention the dried smears of Mom's blood. I brace myself, then dunk my head in to get my hair clean. Most of the year, District Twelve doesn't care if I'm dressed in torn up miner's cast-offs, or that I wear my father's old, battered work boots in the winter (Lacklen wears Mom's; I used to). It doesn't care that my classmates speculate about my bathing habits. It doesn't care that I have coal dust permanently embedded in most of the creases of my body.  
  
But on reaping day, they care. On reaping day, if you don't show up brushed and washed and dressed in the absolute best you can find, there's hell to pay. The year I was twelve, I showed up the way I normally show up for school, and they fined Mom her entire week's wages. I was told that another offense would lead to something worse. Just what the worse thing would be was left to my imagination.  
  
My hair doesn't ever get terribly clean with just water, but I do my best with it. We definitely can't afford any fines right now. I am freezing by the time I finish, and I duck back inside quickly, wrapping myself in a ragged old blanket as soon as I come through the door. Lacklen has a good fire going, and we sit down in front of it and drink pine needle tea together.  
  
We don't do anything important on reaping day. We never do. Just go along. Have breakfast if we've got it. Talk about anything.  
  
Except the reaping. Except the dark circles under our eyes. Except the piles of bloody rags that I'll have wash this afternoon when we get back, before Mom's coughing begins again.  
  
This morning, we talk about the weather, and how the spring rains finally seem to be over. Mom tells us a story about when she and Dad were courting and Dad took her up to the rise above the mines. They looked out beyond the fence, along the line of the seam -- the real seam, the seam of coal that runs underground most of the way to District Eleven -- and talked about what might be out there.  
  
"You were going to run away and be out-district raiders?" Lacklen asks. "That'd be fun."  
  
Mom laughs softly. "We were going to run down along the Seam until we found some old abandoned town. Fix up a place for ourselves."  
  
"Why didn't you do it?" I ask.  
  
"First of all, because there _are_ raiders out there. Not as many as the television would have you believe, but they're there, and they'd take anything we managed to build." She sighs. "Besides, it would have been lonely. For us. For you. People always think they'd do well on their own, but no one really does. We're social creatures. Even the ones who think they aren't."  
  
"There wouldn't be any reaping," Lacklen says. "They can't reap from the out-districts."  
  
The illusion of a pleasant morning is broken. Mom closes her eyes and says, "Yes. There's that." She sniffs. "Speaking of which, I've been sewing. Sae lent me a needle when we were at the Home, and I had some thread left." She starts to get up, but loses her balance. "Haymitch, be a dear and get the suits from my bed. I sized down one of Daddy's for you. And Lacklen, I sized down the one I made Haymitch."  
  
I kiss her cheek, then go into her bedroom. She must have straightened it up while I was sleeping. She's laid out two suits.   
  
The smaller one, I've worn for three years. She made it when I was thirteen and she was still working in the mines and could afford the material. She made it with lots of extra seam space and hemming, but still, by last year, it was tight, and my ankles were showing. I couldn't even get into the jacket. She's carefully re-hemmed everything and brought it down for Lacklen. I check the knee I fell on when I got into a fight last year, and she's darned it like a sock. I don't know why this makes me feel like crying.  
  
The other suit is Dad's. It doesn't have a jacket, just a fancy blue shirt with a high collar. It was probably in fashion once. It still looks okay, I guess. I remember him wearing it once, when we went to a toasting in town. I don't remember whose toasting. One of his drinking buddies, probably, but that doesn't narrow it down much.  
  
Mom has carefully pulled the shirt so it doesn't hang on me like a sail, and shortened the pants a little bit. I'm getting close to Dad's size now. She's left the allowance for me to finish growing.  
  
I don't know who'll let it out next year. I don't know how, and I'm running out of time to learn.  
  
"Haymitch?" she calls from the other room.  
  
I look up, and wonder how long I've been staring at our reaping clothes. I pick them up and bring them out. Lacklen and I both thank her for doing all that work.  
  
"Don't be silly," she says. "It's boring, lying in bed. I was glad to have something I can still do. I should teach you boys. I made your dad learn. It's annoying how many people can't even fix a button." She smiles wearily. No one is fooled by her reasoning. "Go get dressed," she says.  
  
Lacklen goes to his favorite shadow under the stairs. I have taken over the front closet, and I change in there. As usual, I'm ready first -- Lacklen dawdles -- and I come out and sit down across from Mom. "You shouldn't go into town today," I say. "Even the Peacekeepers know you're sick. They won't punish you."  
  
"I'm going, Haymitch."  
  
"They'll just put you in the middle of a crowd for an hour, then we'll all go home. You listen to them call some kids. Why do you need to be there? You should rest."  
  
"I need to be there because of which names they call, Haymitch. There's not a parent in the districts who doesn't try to be there. Just in case. You know that."  
  
"It's not fair."  
  
"No. It's not." She pushes one of my curls back behind my ear. "You look so handsome. Indigo's going to be beating the other girls off with a stick pretty soon."  
  
"Digger knows she hasn't got any worries."  
  
"Good." She smiles. "I like her a lot, you know."  
  
"Me, too."  
  
Lacklen comes out from his spot, looking awkward in my old suit and tugging at the collar of the shirt. A few minutes later, Digger shows up. Technically, she's supposed to go with the other kids from the Home, but Sae always looks the other way if the kids want to be with what passes for their families on reaping day. The Home kids wear clothes that are donated, mostly by town kids, and she is in a fussy dress that's a kind of dingy blue, almost at the edge of purple. She says the color is "indigo," and the girls at the Home insisted that she wear it.  
  
We do have one tradition related to the reaping. Mom started it the year I was twelve, the first time my name was in the reaping balls. We read the story of Theseus the prince, sent away as tribute to fight a monster in an inescapable maze. He befriends the princess, who gives him a thread that leads him out, and is able to return home. Unfortunately, he forgets to change the sails, and his dad kills himself in grief.  
  
At least in the Games, you don't have to worry about garbled codes like that. If a tribute lives, it's live on national television.  
  
Of course, if a tribute dies, it's _also_ on national television.  
  
After we finish, Lacklen and I rig up Mom's chair to carry her into town. I expect Danny's mom will let her sit on the bakery porch instead of trying to stand in the crowd. She'll still be in view of the platform.  
  
Everyone's starting to head for the square. I see Hazelle Purdy with her family. She wrinkles her nose at me and whispers something to one of her younger sisters, who giggles. Clay Hawthorne is with her -- they're neighbors -- and I see him say something to her. He looks cross. She looks confused. When we come around the corner, Glen Everdeen comes out of his house and calls out to Digger. He joins us, wearing clothes that can, at best, be described as clean and in one piece. He takes over for Lacklen in carrying Mom. That evens the chair out a little.  
  
"Thanks," I say.  
  
"No problem. Ready?"  
  
"As ever."  
  
"How about you, Digger?"  
  
She shrugs and shakes her head. "Four. There are going to be four. My name's in there too many times."  
  
The crowd gets thicker as we get closer to the square. Glen decides to start singing -- the old meadow song, about a miner and his little girl -- and a few people have joined him by the time we get there.  He does have a way about him, I guess.  People like him.  I steer us toward the bakery, where Mrs. Mellark does, indeed, let us set Mom's chair on the porch. Danny and Ruth are both there, dressed in their reaping day clothes. Danny's in spotless baker's whites. Ruth is wearing a floaty sort of light blue thing. I know Glen knows Ruth from the apothecary. I'm not sure whether or not he knows Danny, so I introduce them, and they shake hands.   
  
Glen looks around awkwardly, like he'd rather be anywhere else but the porch of a town shop, surrounded by blonde kids in fancy clothes. "Well," he says, "I better go find the seventeens. Abernathy, you hunt me up after, and I'll help you get back. I'm headed that way, anyway." He looks at the platform and smiles nervously. "Well, unless I'm up there, in which case, you're on your own."  
  
"I got it," Danny says. Glen leaves.  
  
Digger smiles. "See, Haymitch? I told you that you should have started being social a long time ago. There's lots of benefits to it."  
  
"I'm not social," I say.  
  
Ruth goes up on her toes and kisses Danny's cheek. "I'm going to go look for the twins. I'll see you after."  
  
"You're not going to be with me?"  
  
She rolls her eyes. "Maysilee's been holed up planning something for the last couple of days. Kaydi and I are going to try and keep her from doing something crazy."  
  
"And you don't think I'd help?"  
  
"I think if she's planning on lighting firecrackers, you'll lend her a match."  
  
Danny puts his hand over his heart and feigns hurt.  
  
She kisses him. "Love you. Meet you after. One way or another."  
  
With that, she wanders off. Halfway across the square, the Donner twins greet her.  
  
The rest of us stay a little longer on the porch. Danny's dad comes out once the bakery officially closes (they have to stay open for the morning, so people can get supplies for their reaping day feasts), and Mom and the Mellarks talk awkwardly about their school days, during which they didn't know each other at all, but seem to have had a handful of acquaintances in common. The square continues to fill up.   
  
About five minutes before two, I turn to Mom and Lacklen. "We better go. You know where you need to be, Lacklen?"  
  
He nods, looking decidedly green.  
  
"Why don't you go find Daisy Conary with the Home kids?" Digger suggests. She's a twelve."  
  
"Okay. Haymitch?"  
  
I shake my head. "Don't worry. It'll be over soon."  
  
"And they'll take four of us."  
  
"It'll be over soon," I repeat.  
  
Lacklen nods solemnly, then heads over to the section in back where the twelves are gathering. I see Daisy Conary welcome him.  
  
"We better go," Danny says. "Get it over with."  
  
No one makes a fuss about saying goodbye to parents before the Reaping. It's believed to be a jinx. Mom tells me to straighten my collar. Danny's dad gives him a sturdy clap on the shoulder, and his mother tells him not to be late for supper if he goes out with his friends after the reaping. Digger gives Mom a kiss on the cheek.  
  
The three of us head out together, but the crowd of sixteens is pretty big this year, and I end up getting pulled away from them by Peacekeepers trying to cram everyone inside. It's the price of getting in late. I see that somehow, Ruth and the Donner girls managed to stay together. They aren't far from me. They are talking very seriously, and Kaydilyn looks scared to death. Maysilee just has her jaw set tightly, like she's about to declare war on the world. Ruth is holding her hand.  
  
On stage, the mayor is testing the sound system. Behind him, I see our new escort, Pelagia Pepper. She's wearing a bright red dress, of just the sort Digger said she wanted. It's made of some kind of shimmery stuff, and almost glows in the grayish afternoon. There's a camera on her, and I see her on the screen here, though we're not live yet. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are moving. Probably practicing her lines. I guess she's pretty by Capitol standards, but it's hard to tell. This year, the style seems to be caked-on makeup glittery eyelash extensions. Her hair is teased up like crazy, and colored wires are looped around in it. No one can really look all that good under that much gunk.  
  
At two o'clock sharp, Mayor Hammond announces that we are going live. We probably aren't actually live -- there are a few other reapings going on around Panem, and they're most likely skipping around to show them all -- but we know what it means. The reaping is beginning.  
  
"Good afternoon," he says, pulling out his script. He is a small man with a shaky voice, and being on television doesn't help much. He looks down and begins to read. "The time of reaping is upon us. There was a time, before memory, when the world was full… "  
  
I know half of the people around me barely believe the story he tells -- a world of bursting cities, grand technology, and great culture. If I hadn't read old stories, stories in which these things were taken for granted, I'd probably refuse to believe it as well. No one knows what really started the chain of disasters that led us to where we are, though the mayor stresses the series of wars that raged across Europe and Asia. Part of the point of the Hunger Games, after all, is to remind us of the horrors of starting wars. Fires burned away ancient lands. Drought drove people from their ancestral homes. The oceans began to rise faster and faster, until all the great coastal cities were drowned. Volcanoes, possibly triggered by seismic weapons, buried much of the land in layers of burning ash.  
  
In the middle of this, pandemics spread through the closely populated world, leaving no continent untouched. People died by the billions, unable to catch up to the diseases. Maybe they were weapons. Maybe they were just new diseases that spread with the rapidly migrating population. Whatever they were, they killed even more than the wars. (Naturally, this year's script stresses that they were, most likely, a result of the wars.)   
  
North America wasn't spared. As the coastal cities went under, their citizens moved inland, and the bitter civil wars that raged across the country left even more places in ruins, and millions more, dead. A nuclear attack in the west left large tracts of desert land uninhabitable for years. On the screen, the ruins of the old world are shown. Burned shells of cities, falling to waste in the middle of a plain. A broken arch by a river, its keystone dashed to the rocks, now overgrown with ivy. A monumental statue of a man on a horse emerging from a mountain, his pointing arm broken off. The rusting skeletons of great cities rising up from the water, fading to their current appearance, which is mostly nothing. The skeletons have long since fallen down.  
  
As mysteriously as they began, the disasters ended. The new shape of the world was in place. The few scattered bands of survivors roamed the planet aimlessly, many groups dying out because they no longer had the numbers to survive.  
  
In this wasteland, in the ruins of a city in the mountains, survivors banded together. They rebuilt. They called to nearby wanderers, and created a shining new city. They reclaimed the technology, and began the search around the world for other survivors, bringing them in until the new city was bursting with energy and creativity, and even needed more room. They fanned out into the first districts, eventually working their way east, where they ran into other existing groups -- including the original miners of District Twelve, and of course, the technological stronghold of District Thirteen. As the story would have it, both populations were just thrilled to join up with the growing society the Capitol was building. Thirteen was happy to give up its lead in technology, and become miners like us, though for graphite in their case. According to the story, here in Twelve, we'd regressed so far that they could barely communicate, necessitating the intervention of the Capitol, and the arrival of the wandering merchants who could talk more easily to both sides.  
  
Then, Thirteen led a rebellion against its benefactors. The tone of the script is one of pained confusion. No mention is made of any grievances, or of several districts having been used as prison colonies. There's no one who doesn't know this. It was only fifty years ago. But it's never mentioned, and it's certainly not written down anywhere. In another fifty years, there will be no memory of it at all.   
  
Thirteen led the other districts to rise up and nearly destroy the world again. After they were destroyed and the rest of us subdued, the Capitol, in its mercy, chose not to kill us all. Instead, as punishment for the lives of children killed in the assault on the Capitol, our children would be taken as tribute. Two a year. One of them would have the chance to live in luxury as a reward, a chance denied to the innocent dead of the rebellion. This year, the mayor reminds us, is the second Quarter Quell, and the tribute is doubled to commemorate the fact that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen.  
  
I somehow doubt the math is right there, but I don't argue. I suspect it was more than that, and that's a reminder that wouldn't help anyone.  
  
"And now," the mayor says, "may I introduce our new escort, Pelagia Pepper?"  
  
We know what we're supposed to do, and we do it. We applaud. Hell, maybe some people are actually glad. She's got to be better than Glass.  
  
"Happy Hunger Games," she says. Her voice is soft and not exactly happy. Then again, she's been bounced down to District Twelve. No one's going to be happy about that.  
  
She announces the girls' reaping and reaches into the glass ball for the first name. It's Gilla Callan, the thirteen year old from the Home who I talked to the night of the card reading. She has to be more or less pushed up to the stage, and she's crying into her hands when she gets there.  
  
Pelagia Pepper signals for the cameras to focus on her, rather than the weeping tribute. This happens somewhere every year, and no one in Panem wants to watch it.  
  
"And now, we honor our Quarter Quell by drawing a second young lady." She reaches into the ball again and draws out another slip. "Maysilee Donner!"  
  
I turn, startled. Merchant kids almost never go, and Maysilee is well off even for a merchant. It has to be because of what she's been doing.  
  
Kaydilyn and Ruth are hugging her and crying. She hugs them back, then goes to the stage, her back straight and her shoulders squared. She stands beside Gilla. I see something glinting in the pale, cloudy light, and I realize that she's wearing the damned mockingjay pin that probably got her into this in the first place.  
  
I am still standing, slack-jawed, staring at Maysilee, when Pelagia moves on to the boys' reaping. The first name she calls is Beech Berryhill. Beech is seventeen, and he isn't the world's brightest kid. When he goes up, he gives the thumbs-up sign to his friends, like he's off to an adventure instead of to his own murder.  
  
"And we have one more name to call," Pelagia says. "One more tribute to represent District Twelve in the Second Quarter Quell."  
  
I stare up at Maysilee, who is not crying, or shaking, or acknowledging Beech and Gilla. She is just staring out at the cameras, her eyes grim.  
  
I look around and find Danny, easy to see in his whites. He looks horrified. It's the first time one of our year -- one of our friends -- has been called, despite the constant panic. I spot Digger at the edge of the crowd, staring at the stage as well.  
  
I almost don't hear it when Pelagia calls out, "Haymitch Abernathy!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being reaped, Haymitch bids farewell to his family and friends.

It takes a minute to realize that Pelagia Pepper really did say what I thought she said.  I know I'm supposed to make my way out of the holding area and get up to the stage, but I don't really know what to do with it until I hear Digger scream, "No!" 

I turn and see her struggling to get to me through the crowd of sixteens, but there's no chance before the Peacekeepers reach me and "guide" me out.  I see one headed in to calm her down and I shake my head.  Danny is able to get to her and grab her by the arms,  holding her back.

The Peacekeepers bring me to the stage, and stand me up beside Beech.

I stand there for fifteen minutes, barely hearing the mayor read the Treaty of the Treason.  Beside me, Beech seems confused.   Gilla is still crying.  Maysilee continues to glare defiantly.  Over the top of the crowd, I can see Mom on the bakery porch, her hands over her heart, her eyes wide with horror.   Danny is still holding on to Digger, but she's stopped struggling, and is just crying into her hands.  Ruth has led Kaydilee over, and the four of them are huddled together.

The mayor finishes speaking, and they march us into the Justice Building and put all of us in different rooms. There will be an hour to say goodbyes -- we'll get three twenty minute visits. I'm sure Mom and Lacklen will be one, and Digger will be another (I hope she won't come at the same time). I don't know who the third will be. Maybe I'll just be sitting around staring out a window while the others say goodbye to people.  
  
The Peacekeepers escorting us are grumbling because no one thought to arrange for extra rooms before the reaping. The girls are given the usual two, or what the Peacekeepers say are the usual two. I've never actually had to say goodbye to a tribute before. Maysilee goes into a rich looking room with velvet curtains, and Gilla is given the smoking lounge. Beech and I are taken upstairs, where the Peacekeepers hunt for unlocked doors. The building is old and dank, and it's cold after weeks of rain, even though it's reasonably warm outside. They finally put Beech into what looks like someone's private study, and, bizarrely, stick me in the middle of the formal dining room, the place where fancy out-of-district visitors are wined and dined. It's certainly not a place I ever expected to be. Judging by the cobwebs on the upturned chairs, not many other people have been here lately, either.  
  
A maid runs in and puts down a plate of bread (Danny's told me that his parents donate this every year, but I never gave it any thought) then lights a fire to take the damp chill out of the room. She turns and gives me a commiserating smile, then leaves, closing the door behind her. I wander around, looking out the windows, and take a piece of the bread to nibble on, even though I'm pretty sure it's going to come back up.  
  
The strange thing is, I'm afraid, but not in any way I recognize. I've been afraid before. It usually makes me queasy and jumpy, and gives me a headache. Right now, I just feel cold, like I've been packed in ice. The lines of the room, even the draped cobwebs, seem too sharp, too harsh on my eyes. I swear I can actually hear the footsteps of the spider scurrying along the ceiling.  
  
The door bursts open five minutes after it's shut, and Digger runs in. She throws her arms around me and kisses me. "Haymitch! No, now what?"  
  
I pull away from her as gently as I can. I seem to be seeing every hair on her head, recording it carefully. Time seems to be moving in tiny, photographic flashes. The pale gray of her eyes. A couple of eyelashes that are crossed over each other. The way her hair curls under where it falls at her shoulders. Her voice seems to echo.

"We figure it out," I say. "Is Mom on the way?"  
  
She nods. "She and Lacklen are coming last. I think she wanted to get the very last second with you. She told me to run ahead so we didn't miss any time." She closes the distance between us again, puts her hands on my face. She's crying. "I wish I hadn't taken the tea. I wish --"  
  
I shake my head. "Digger, that wouldn't be a good idea, even if --"  
  
"I'd have something!"  
  
I want to tell her that it's a terrible thought, but she's crying and miserable, and I just hold her instead.  
  
She calms down finally and pulls away, wiping her face brutally. "I thought I'd go. I never thought they'd take you. Not really, not deep down."  
  
"I didn't think so, either."  
  
She presses her hands against her face and takes two huge, gulping breaths. She lowers her hands to her waist and pulls on the thin drawstring around the waist of her dress. It comes free, leaving the dress hanging loose around her, clinging to the sharp bones of her hips. The shadows it makes seem very clear. She presses the string into my hand. "Take this with you," she says. "They let you have one thing. Take it. It's indigo. Glad they made me wear it."  
  
I take it. "The thread," I say. "Like in the story."  
  
"I'm no princess."  
  
"Well, I'm not a prince, so that works." I fold the string carefully and put it in my pocket. I'll have find some way to wear it in the arena. "Digger, will you stay with Mom until… until the end?"  
  
"Of course I will. I love your mom."  
  
"And when Lacklen goes to the Home, will you make sure he's okay?"  
  
"You come home, and you can make sure of it yourself."  
  
"I'm going to try, but if I don't, I need to know."  
  
"I'll take care of him," she says, looking away. "What am I going to do?"  
  
I put my hand on her shoulder and wait for her to look up. "I have to say something to you. I don't want to. But I want you to hear it. So that if you're sitting there sometime next year thinking what I want, you know it."  
  
"Haymitch --"  
  
"If you have a chance at a good life, you _jump at it_. I don't want you wasting one second worrying about whether I'd be okay with it. I'm telling you right now. You be happy. If you meet someone, you go off, and be happy. Do you hear me?"  
  
"I want to be happy with you."  
  
"I do, too, and if I come back, we'll make a go of it. Bet we could make it work, too. But you know there's only one coming back. It's pretty likely to not be me."  
  
"You're smarter than any of them."  
  
"And I'll use that for all it's worth. I promise. But you need to promise me what I asked for. That you'll move on and be happy if I don't come back."  
  
She pulls away and crosses her arms over her chest. "Fine, yes. I'll just forget all about you."  
  
"I didn't say that. Maybe -- maybe you could have a boy baby someday and name him after me or something. I'd like that, I think."  
  
She stares at the floor and says, "Yeah. Sure. I'll do that. I will."  
  
"Will you make the promise I asked you for?"  
  
She sighs, then goes to the table where the bread bowl is. She takes a piece of it and goes to the fireplace. "Come here," she says.  
  
I don't pretend not to know what she's doing. I crouch down beside her. "This is nuts, Digger. We're too young. They won't recognize it."  
  
" _I'll_ recognize it." She holds the bread out toward the fire with her hand. It's not the proper way to do it. We don't have tongs or anything.  
  
I take the bread back.  
  
Break it in half.  
  
Give half back to her and hold out mine to the fire.  
  
We don't say anything as the bread gets as toasted as it can, this far from the fire, held only in our hands. After a while, she pulls her piece back and hands it to me. I hand mine to her.  
  
She nods solemnly. "Now, I'll promise. As long as you know… I'm never going to forget you."  
  
"I know," I whisper, and kiss her.  
  
The door opens and Peacekeepers come in to tell her that our time is over. They lead her away.  
  
"I love you!" she calls.  
  
The door closes between us.  
  
I don't eat the toast. I wrap it up in the string she gave me, and put it in my pocket. I'm not sure I can really process what just happened. My mind is somewhere else entirely. I want to turn it over again in my head, try to understand it, but I don't have time. There are more goodbyes to say.  
  
I know Mom wants to come in the last visitor slot, so I'm surprised when the door opens again almost right away. I'm even more surprised that it's Danny.  
  
"Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"I hope you don't mind. Your mom said --"  
  
"I know, she's coming last. Digger told me." I raise my eyebrows. "What do you do -- wait around every year to see if someone needs a visitor?"  
  
"Someone should," he says. "But no. I just… we've been friends a long time. I can't help thinking that we got you into this. Me and Ruth and Kaydi and Maysilee…"  
  
I shake my head. "Maybe Maysilee is in it because of that, but I think I just got the bad luck of the draw. I doubt the Capitol cares one way or another if I'm dead or alive."  
  
"I imagine they'll care by the time you're done with them.  By the time you're done annoying them, I bet Snow himself paratroops into the arena to deal with you."

"See, _that_ would be entertaining."

"Well -- you do have a talent for irritating people."  
  
"Yeah. Maybe."  
  
He takes a deep breath. "I just wanted to tell you -- after the train leaves, I'll hunt up Everdeen like he said, and we'll get your mom back home, so Lacklen doesn’t have to worry about it."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"And Ruth will make sure she's got everything she needs, as far as medicine. At least everything she needs that we can get for her." He bites his lip. "Ruth was going to come, but she's kind of broken about Maysilee. She's like another sister, you know? But she'll help take care of your mom. She promises."  
  
"That's nice of her." I look out the window. "Danny, you know my journal?" I raise my eyebrows, and I hope he's smart enough figure out that we're being watched and I can't exactly say that the notes from our meetings are in it. He nods. "Why don't you take it? It's wrapped up in plastic in the front closet."  
  
"I… thank you."  
  
"And if you ever find out what that crazy girl was talking about that time" -- I hope he remembers talking about the nukes and District Thirteen -- "then you write the answer in the journal, and it'll be like you're telling me. And I kind of want to know."  
  
He forces a smile. "I knew your curiosity would get the better of you." He nods. "Well, I'll get that, then. And, um… I'll leave you alone to get ready for your mom."  
  
He backs toward the door, looking unsure. Danny's usually good with words, but when things are bad, they have a tendency to dry up on him. "I…" He turns to open the door.  
  
"Danny?" I call.  
  
He turns.  
  
I try to think of what I want to say. That I'm glad he came to see me off. That it meant something to have one person around who treated me like a human being instead of a curiosity in class. That he's a decent guy, but he really needs to re-think who he trusts sometimes. That he needs to be careful carrying Mom's chair, because there's a crack in the branch Lacklen and I attached, and it can pinch your hand pretty good if you don't watch out for it.  
  
I say, "Goodbye."  
  
He nods. His voice is very low when he says, "Goodbye, Haymitch." He turns and lets himself out.  
  
I take one of the upturned chairs down from the table and sit by the fire. It already seems some other life when Digger and I knelt here, even though the toast is still warm and crumbling in my pocket. Everything seems to be a different life. The suits laid out on Mom's bed. Her promise to teach me to sew. The woods by the lake and the smell of Digger's skin. I can't remember it. I'm sure I'd recognize it, but if I try to bring it to mind, it's gone.  
  
I stare at the flames for a long time, watching the way they change their shapes as they climb. They move like water, flowing upward instead of down, breaking into drops and sparks that race each other up into the darkness. I feel like I can see colors I've never seen before, hear the tiny sounds of the wood breaking up inside.  
  
I wonder if it's like this for the others, if suddenly everything seems too clear, too vivid to be lost.  
  
Some cold part my brain says that it's not -- and that this is an advantage. That my fear is manifesting itself as awareness instead of paralysis.  
  
That I can use this to win.  
  
I shake it off. Probably everyone has this experience. And they probably all think it will help them win, and that gets them killed the second they step off their platforms, sure they're seeing things that no one else is, that they have almost magical powers of perception. I can't afford fantasies right now. I can't afford anything right now.  
  
Some amount of time later -- it could be five minutes, it could be five days -- I hear footsteps on the far side of the door.  
  
The latch clicks open. My mother and brother come in. Mom is not crying. She's gathered herself up, found the same steel she had when Daddy died. I can tell she was crying earlier, but now, she is square-shouldered and stern. I take my cue from her and stand up straight.  
  
Lacklen is wide-eyed and shaking, and I get up to get chairs for them both. We get Mom settled, then Lacklen sits down.  
  
"They can't make you go," Lacklen says.  
  
"They can," I say. "And they will. You're going be okay, though." I look at Mom. "Danny Mellark is going get you home."  
  
She shakes her head. "I'll talk to him and thank him. But Sae invited us to stay at the Community Home until… until the Games are over. I think I can make the walk, though I'd be obliged if he brings my chair." She takes a deep, painful sounding breath, then reaches out and grabs both of my hands. "Haymitch, for a year and half you've been telling me to live, no matter what the odds say. Now it's my turn. You _live_. Do you hear me? You live. You come home. I need you to live."  
  
"If I will, will you?"  
  
"I'll try. You have my word."  
  
I nod. "Then you have mine."  
  
She presses my hands to her face. Her skin is hot and dry, and I think she's running a fever. I kneel down in front of her, and put my head on her knee, the way I used to when I was small. She combs my hair with her bony fingers. I feel Lacklen get down beside me, and I throw my arm around him. The world is a warm, safe place for one last moment.  
  
It ends.  
  
Mom puts her finger under my chin to get me to look up. "Those other children will have trained with weapons. They'll have skills you don't have. But there are things you know that they don't."  
  
"Yeah. Sure."  
  
"You say that like you don't believe me."  
  
"I believe you, Mom."  
  
"You know how to think. You know better than to throw things away -- and I don't just mean _things_. Haymitch, whatever comes into your mind comes into it for a reason. Don't throw it away. You're trying to tell yourself something you can use. Pay attention. Use whatever your mind gives you."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Daddy and I didn't fight for you to take your fancy classes just to be decorative."  
  
"Right. I'm sure a good story will be a lot of use in the arena."  
  
"A lot of stories have good answers in them." She stops talking, and I can tell she's fighting not to cough. I don't interrupt her. After a minute, she says, "And it's not just that. You're _in_ a story now. What kind is going to be?"  
  
I have a feeling it's not going to be the kind with a happy ending, but I don't say it.  
  
"Odysseus," Lacklen says. "Remember. He makes it home."  
  
"Right. Odysseus."  
  
"You could do worse." Lacklen tries to smile, but it comes out all wrong. "You didn't find the way out of my trap with the dressers. You have to break out of things. Don't let anyone pin you down. Don't let--"  
  
He starts to hyperventilate, and I get up to put my arms around him and hold on as tight as I can. "You need to be tough," I tell him. "I'm going to be, too. But I'll especially need your help if any reporters come here. Can you be tough with them? Act like you're sure I'll be home any minute?"  
  
"I -- "  
  
"Come on, I'd do it for you."  
  
He nods. "I can do it."  
  
"So no tears. No shaking. This is just the way things are. Like when people in school get on your case about wearing Mom's boots. You just shrug it off. No matter what you see."  
  
"Are you going to kill people?"  
  
"If I'm coming back, I'll probably have to."  
  
"And if you do," Mom says, "then it's because of the Games. It's _not_ because of you."  
  
"We'll see how far I can get without doing it. I won't go hunting anyone. That seems like a good way to get killed, anyway."  
  
"See?" Mom finds a smile somewhere. "You're doing it. You're thinking your way through it. You can _do_ this."  
  
She starts to cough now, and her carefully maintained composure breaks. She hunches over in the chair, her hands clasped behind her neck, coughing and weeping.  
  
I wrap my arms around her. "It's okay, Mom. It's okay. You said it -- I can think through it. I can do it. I'll come back. I will come back. You just be here when I do. You have to be here, okay? I'll come back, and there'll be money, and… and I'll find someone in the Capitol who knows how to fix your lungs…"  
  
She gropes for my hand, and I give it to her. She kisses it. "Don't distract yourself worrying about me. I'll have people taking care of me. Good people." She stops and coughs, and a spot of blood flies up onto my shirt. "I'm sorry, they can clean that on the train, I'm sure, it's just cotton…"  
  
"They're not cleaning anything." I kiss her head. "I don't want to leave you, Mom."  
  
"I know. And I don't want you to leave. That's why the do this to us every year. Because neither of us has a choice."  
  
"Digger will be with you. She promised to stay with you."  
  
"I know."  
  
I don't know what to say. The clock says we still have ten minutes -- too long to fill with these pointless promises that probably won't mean anything from either of us. Not long enough to do anything that needs to be done, or figure out how to say all of the things that there aren't words for.  
  
I sit down at her feet again, holding her hand, my other arm around my little brother. "Tell me about when you and Dad were going to run away. What would it have been like?"  
  
And so I spend the last ten minutes with my family, listening to my mother spin her last story -- about how my dad was so clever, and they were so young and strong, and they wanted to escape to a new, empty world outside, where we would live in the sunshine and read and be happy. We would run in the meadows, where there were butterflies and flowers by the thousands in the summertime. There would always be enough to eat, and somehow, we would bring our friends out with us.  
  
It's a pretty story, a childish daydream that I want to believe in. I can't quite do it, but I imagine it for Mom, imagine her healthy and happy, with Dad still whole and sober at her side. Somewhere, beyond the edge of the world, in a myth garden like Eden or the Elysian Fields from the books I've read. I ask her questions so I have it in my head completely.  
  
The maid who lit the fire opens the door and whispers, "Two minutes, Mrs. Abernathy." She ducks back out.  
  
"Two minutes," Mom says. "How can we say anything in two minutes?"  
  
"Maybe we don't need to."  
  
Whether we need to or not, we _don't_ say anything. The three of us just hold on to each other tightly until the Peacekeepers come. Mom has pulled herself together again, and Lacklen is doing his best to be as tough as he promised to be.  
  
She stops at the door and turns to me. "Live, Haymitch."  
  
I nod. "You, too."  
  
With that, the Peacekeepers tug both of them away and slam the door.  
  
I'm not alone for long. Pelagia Pepper appears a few minutes later, smiling brightly. The others are already in tow, not smiling at all. Maysilee has lost her angry glare, and now just looks distant. Beech and Gilla are holding onto each other and crying.  
  
"It's time to go!" Pelagia announces. That strange sense of seeing too much comes again. I feel like I'm the only one who can see the sweat on her lip, or hear the slight warble in her voice. I guess when the kids are crying, it's a little harder to pretend you're taking them on a great adventure.  
  
She leads us outside to a waiting car. In other years, I've always thought it was stupid that they took people to the train depot in a car, but now I understand. I don't think I'd have the strength to walk through the solemn crowd that's gathered, as always, along the route. I don't see my family or Digger; I guess the families must be taken away somewhere, so the cameras don't catch them mourning.  
  
When we reach the station, there are cameras everywhere. I'm glad Ruth pulled up the plants on the grave, because the cameras are perched quite high enough to see between the trees. I see Maysilee looking in that direction, too,  
  
Gilla has stopped crying, and Beech is getting a handle on it as well, which is good, since criers will end up being ridiculed on the talk show circuit tonight. Not Caesar Flickerman, who finds something nice to say about all the tributes, but he's not the only person who'll be talking about the Games. Gossip shows, late night comics, anyone with a stage and a camera. Last year, the boy from Nine cried, and two days into the training period, someone had already come out with a mocking doll that spewed gushers of water out of its eyes. It was marketed right up until he died in tenth place. Comics continued to use it in sketches, and it was a standing joke that District Nine was about to flood.  
  
They take video of us. Everyone in Panem will see my mother's blood on my shirt. They will see the glint of Maysilee's pin. They'll see tiny Gilla, and big, lumbering Beech.  
  
Pelagia leads us into the train, into a compartment much more luxurious than the Justice Building we just left. She sits us down and asks if we need anything. No one can think of anything to ask for.  
  
"Well," she says, still forcing a cheerful smile, "you be glad to know that you've been assigned a mentor from District Two -- Albinus Drake, who won the Games only six years ago. He knows the Games very well, and he'll be all yours!"  
  
"Won't he want a District Two win?" Gilla asks.  
  
"Of course not. He'll be _your_ mentor."  
  
No one seems any more reassured by this than I am. He may not actually be rooting for another district, but I doubt he'll care much about ours.  
  
Pelagia looks down, apparently seeing that we don't really believe her. "Well… we have a long trip. We'll get you something to eat, then you should all get some sleep. You'll have a long few days ahead of you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch and the other tributes arrive in the Capitol and are prepped for the parade.

We might be scared, but that doesn't stop anyone from eating just about everything they put in front of us. It'll probably be our last chance to have anything good. While we eat, they play the reapings from across Panem. None of us pays much attention.  
  
Gilla and Beech and I just dig in, drinking soup straight from the bowls, pulling apart chicken with our fingers. Gilla may have had some training at the Home, but not much. On the Seam, silverware is kind of a sometime thing. Maysilee drinks her soup carefully and uses her knife and fork on the meat. I guess I'm as self-conscious as the others when I notice this -- I've done many things with my town friends, but I haven't eaten a whole meal with them, and it didn't occur to me that Maysilee probably thinks of silverware as a normal part of every table. I look up and hastily grab a napkin to wipe the grease off my fingers.  
  
She rolls her eyes, puts down her knife, and picks up a chicken breast to take a big bite.  
  
Pelagia laughs nervously. "Well, since we won't meet your mentor and stylist until we get to the Capitol, maybe we can spend some time tomorrow morning on… on the way people in the Capitol generally eat. You may have cameras on you at the table during training. Sometimes, it's better to use the host's manners. Manners everyone understands."  
  
"Are they filming us on the train, Miss Pepper?" Gilla asks.  
  
"No, honey. And you can call me Gia. My friends call me that."  
  
"You're not our friend," Maysilee says coolly.  
  
Pelagia looks hurt.  
  
"You just chose us to die," Maysilee goes on.  
  
"And now I'm going to do my best to help you live."  
  
"Which one of us?"  
  
Of course, there's no good answer to that. The _best_ case scenario is three of the four of us dead. Pelagia looks down, then leaves the car.  
  
"You don't have to be mean to her," I say after the door shuts. "She's just doing her job."  
  
"Her job is helping them kill us."  
  
"Maybe they don't have any more choice about jobs in the Capitol than we do. Don't know about you, but I wasn't exactly looking forward to the mines." I consider this. "Though, to tell the truth, they look pretty good right about now."  
  
"What's your point?" she asks.  
  
"Seems I remember someone saying the Capitol loves to set people up against each other."  
  
"Seems I remember someone saying the Capitol didn't care."  
  
There's an awkward silence, then Gilla says. "I wanted to be house mother at the Community Home."  
  
"Yeah?" I ask, mostly to direct the attention away from Maysilee.  
  
"Yeah. Sae's real good. She's always helping us out. Someday, she'll get old for it, and then I want do it. Or, well… I _wanted_ to." She looks over at Beech. "What about you?"  
  
"I don't know," he says. "Guess I'd have been in the mines like everyone else."  
  
"What about at home?" Gilla prods.  
  
"Figured I'd get married. Maybe have a couple kids or something." He thinks about it deeply. "And a cat. My brother has a cat that follows him around. I think that would have been a good thing to have." He looks at me. "How 'bout you, Abernathy?"  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"Did Digger do the toasting?" Gilla asks abruptly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well -- there's always bread for the tributes, and Sae sent her daughter to light a fire in there -- she works as a maid -- so that, if you and Digger wanted to…"  
  
"Yeah." I said. "Yeah, we did." They're all staring at me. I reach into my pocket and pull out the half-piece of toast, which is mostly crumbs now. I shake it free of the indigo string and eat a piece of it, then pass the rest out to the others. Usually at a toasting, the rest of the loaf gets passed out to guests, but I make do with what I have. Not that I wanted to invite guests, but I should have known that the fire wasn't a coincidence in warm weather.  
  
They look down at their bits of toast. Gilla starts crying as she nibbles at it. Beech pats her shoulder awkwardly.  
  
There doesn't seem to be anything left to say. For a while, I stay with Beech and Gilla, because Maysilee is being distant, but I finally get tired of them talking about all the things they'll miss on the Seam, and all of the people they know, many of whom have made my life miserable. I stand up and go over to Maysilee, who is sitting in a window seat, watching the dark countryside go by. I have no idea what districts I'm seeing the lights of in the distance. Our maps are actually kind of vague about where they are.  
  
"Sorry," I say. "About arguing with you."  
  
"It's okay. You were right. For all I know, there's a gun at her head." She sighs and looks down at my hand, where I'm holding Digger's string. "Is that going to be your token?"  
  
"Yeah. I guess."  
  
"It'll break pretty fast if it gets wet. Let me see what I can do with it. Kaydi and Ruth and I used to make jewelry out of packing string when we were little."  
  
I don't really want to let go of it, but maybe she can do something with it that will do some good. I hand it to her.  
  
She looks at it, then measures my wrist with one end of it. "We thought we were so fancy," she says, "with our rings and necklaces and bracelets. Sometimes, Ruth would make different colors of tea, and we'd dye them to match our clothes."  
  
She starts knotting the string, nothing fancy. About halfway through, she asks for the buttons from the cuffs of my shirt. ("They're going to give you new clothes, anyway. Spoil this one before they try to put it in the tribute museum.") The buttons are the kind with loops on the back, and she threads them onto the string, putting a single knot between them, then she continues single knotting the rest of the way. By the time she's done, it's about the right length to tie around my wrist, and looks like it might actually last longer than I will.  
  
"Thanks," I say as she ties it carefully. "Are you wearing your pin?"  
  
"If they let me."  
  
There's nothing to say. We watch the world go by until Pelagia comes back and tells us that we really do need our sleep. Maysilee apologizes to her. She nods and accepts it. Her eyes are red.  
  
We each go to our own compartments, which have been stocked with clothes in our size. I guess they must have a bunch of different sizes stashed in the other cars. I put on a pair of pajamas. I don't think I've worn actual pajamas since I was about five. They're considerably softer than my long underwear.  
  
The sheets on the bed are some kind of shiny, slippery material, and I'm afraid I'll slide right out of bed at first. After a while, though, the soft mattress, the smooth sheets, and the carefully controlled temperature lull me to sleep. I dream I am in the woods with Digger, slashing through the brambles, trying to find our way to the out-district place where Mom and Dad and Lacklen are all living. We never do make it, though we glimpse it from the top of a hill. I wake up before we get there.  
  
The morning on the train is taken up by a huge breakfast, made much less pleasant by Pelagia's manners lessons. Maysilee tries to make up for yesterday by backing her up, saying that if we _are_ on camera, it will be easier to get sponsors if we're polite. This doesn't endear her to Beech and Gilla, who can't see why they should put on airs.  
  
For myself, I figure it may be my last chance to learn anything other than how to kill people. Granted, it's kind of a _stupid_ thing to learn. I can't imagine why anyone bothers to have three different forks for a meal, and even more spoons. But I memorize them dutifully, and ask Pelagia questions about how the rules came to be, and when we might use some other examples she brings out.  
  
By the time we're done, we're all calling her "Gia," and Gilla and Beech have mastered the basics. It's also time for lunch. Gilla suggests that we make a game of remembering everything. The last thing I want to think about is playing a game, but it seems to be calming her down, so we ask Gia to keep score. Maysilee and I conspire without discussing it to let Gilla win, deliberately making one mistake in every course, and passing her the easiest foods.  
  
Gia announces the end of the game as we go into the tunnel through the mountains that will get us to the Capitol. She crowns Gilla the winner and lets her wear a fancy hair clip into town as a prize.  
  
"Now," she says as the darkness surrounds us, "when we get into the Capitol, put on your friendliest, best-mannered faces. Albinus and your stylists will meet us at the training center. I'm afraid that they haven't increased the numbers of stylists, so the girls will share Atilia, an the boys will share Lepidus. I'm sure that Albinus will tell you this, but just to be sure, you really must do as your stylists tell you. It's not always pleasant -- though I rather enjoy most of it myself -- but it's for your good."  
  
We come out into the light at a train depot in the Capitol. I take the city in quickly: colored glass towers, gleaming windows, statuary glinting in the afternoon sun. It's so bright, so far from coal-covered District Twelve, that it might be some fairy tale place. I think that Digger would like it.  
  
Except that it means to kill me.  
  
With that, I disconnect from its beauty. Maybe under other circumstances, I'd stop and look at it, but there are never going to be other circumstances. Even victors need to be invited to visit here.  
  
The other three are staring, gape-mouthed, at the buildings. Even though we've all changed into clothes provided by the Capitol, we look like hopeless rubes here.  
  
Then again, none of us are stuck wearing feathered leggings that make us look like malformed birds, and I can see at least three people in the crowd who seem to be. I glance at them as we move, and again, the world seems to resolve itself in little flashes. I have a very clear and useless view of a man trying to be subtle while he scratches his private parts.  
  
We're piled into another car and driven to the center of town. I pass things I've seen on television, and things that never seem to get shown. There's a little statue on a corner where we stop. It has a couple of shiny birds on top of a ball. It seems largely forgotten among the tall glass buildings around it, and I can see that a few real birds have visiting it recently. Further down, there's a small statue of a family huddled together, looking up at the mountains.  
  
Finally, we reach City Circle, a place I feel like I know as well as a native. This is where the speeches happen every year, where the chariots will bring us tonight. It's already being set up, of course, though people are still going about their daily business. I guess the city doesn't really shut down for the Games until tonight.  
  
We go around City Circle and down the wide parade promenade, into the tall, grand building called the Training Center. We see it from the outside every year, of course, and now and then, they show scenes from a gymnasium that's here somewhere, but I really am not sure what to expect.  
  
When we go through the big arch where the chariots emerge, we find ourselves in a cavernous basement. I can already see the chariots lined up. Horses are in stables. The smell isn't good, but not as bad as the pig pens some people keep back in Twelve.  
  
People are milling about everywhere. Some are victors I recognize from television. Last year's winner, Brutus Emmett, is chatting with a woman who has cat whiskers, and Seeder, a pretty victor from Eleven, is over by the horses, feeding them something from her hand. The other victor from Eleven -- a guy named Chaff, who won a few years ago but lost his hand, is prowling around and grumbling near the place they stop the car.  
  
Beside him is Albinus Drake of District Two. He's dressed casually for a victor in the Capitol, and he's standing between two frightened looking mice in Capitol clothes. He only won six years ago, so he can't be any older than twenty-four, but whatever he's been doing since the games has aged him a lot. Gia brings us to him.  
  
"Did you take a detour somewhere?" he asks her.  
  
"It's a long trip from District Twelve," she says. "Here are the tributes." She pulls Gilla forward. "This is --"  
  
Drake waves his hand dismissively. "I saw the reapings. I know their names." He looks at Gilla. "How are old are you?"  
  
"Thirteen."  
  
"Figures." He sighs and looks at the woman cowering behind him. "Atilia, do your best. She's got nothing up top, so you're not going to be able to sell much that way. Play up how young she is. Pigtails or something.  Maybe we can find pity sponsors." He moves on to Beech. "You -- are you as strong as you look?"  
  
"Yeah. Guess so."  
  
"Good. Maybe you'll survive a little while. Play on that, Lepidus."  
  
I look at the man he calls Lepidus -- a small, thin man with spectacles framed in what looks like ice, complete with icicles hanging from the frames. This must be my stylist. He looks like a strong breeze would bowl him over, and like maybe Drake has already bowled him over a few times.  
  
"And _you_." Drake stops in front of me. He squints. "What have you got going for you?"  
  
"On a guess," I say, "I'm smarter than you."  
  
"That'll do you a lot of good when your head's off your body." He snorts. "Well, you're not bad looking. I could probably scare up a few sponsors for you." He glances at Lepidus. "Make sure the genius here is showing off his… brains."  
  
Lepidus gives me an apologetic look, then shrinks back.  
  
Drake moves on to Maysilee and smiles lecherously. "You barely need any work, Beautiful. I'll have sponsors lining up for you. Maybe I'll even take the time to give you a little _private_ mentoring." He reaches out toward her chest.  
  
She slaps him hard enough that most of the people in our vicinity hear it and turn. I see the victor Chaff grin at her.  
  
Drake pulls back his arm to strike her. I grab his arm. I don't know exactly what I'm doing, but I hope he'll try and grab hold of me. I know how to get away if he does. It doesn't take long. He turns me around and gets me in a headlock -- a move I've known how to get away from for two years. I turn enough to get my arm in front of his body, then put my leg behind his legs, then throw myself backward to the ground, pulling him with me. I use my free elbow to jab at him, and get him just below the throat. He doesn’t let go, so I aim a little lower down his body with the next shot.  
  
The arm around my neck withdraws, and I get to my feet. "You don't talk to any of us that way again," I say. "Got it?"  
  
Drake gets to his feet, wincing. "Good luck with those sponsors, Genius," he says, then turns to the stylists. "Do what I said."  
  
He stalks away stiffly.  
  
"Need a little help walking there, Albinus?" Chaff calls after him, then laughs. He turns and gives me a wink.  
  
I figure I might like him, but there's no time to talk. We're whisked away by the stylists just as another car comes in. I guess it's carrying the District Eleven tributes, because Chaff and Seeder go up to it.  
  
I lose track of the halls we go through. The girls and Atilia get swept into a room at least one level up from where we started, and Beech and I (along with Lepidus) end up a few levels above that. The room is obviously made to be used for one person -- it's large, but there's a lot of duplicate equipment shoved into it, and a temporary canvas tub set up in one corner. A cloth divider on a metal frame is wheeled into the middle, but we aren't separated yet. Six people in smocks are standing in a row.  
  
Lepidus clears his throat meekly. "These are the tributes from District Twelve, um…"  
  
"I'm Haymitch," I say. "He's Beech."  
  
"Thank you. Get them down to Base Zero, and, of course… make sure the lines of the clothes aren't disturbed. Atilia and I will be sizing the costumes. Send someone when they're ready.  
  
He disappears.  
  
The next two hours are probably the most embarrassing I've ever spent, including the time I had to wear one of Mom's blouses to school because I tore Dad's on the way out the door and there was no time to fix it. Beech is taken to the other side of the divider, and three gossipy women proceed to strip me naked and dump me in the canvas tub. They tackle me with scrub brushes and heavy, gritty soaps, scouring the coal dust off parts of me that the audience better _never_ get a glimpse of. I feel like they take off about half my skin with it, and I sting all over by the time that little treatment is done.  
  
The women try to talk to me while they're working -- how do I like the Capitol, what do I like in school, things like that -- but it's a little awkward to talk to people who are turning you over like a flapjack and chatting about television shows while they use rough gloves to try and get coal dust out of skin wrinkles I didn't even know I had. I do catch that their names are Fabiola, Igerna, and Medusa. Medusa does not understand why I think it's funny that she's doing my hair.  
  
"We'd best get the shot taken care of now that we're done scrubbing," Fabiola says while they're draining the tub and getting it ready for whatever they plan to do with me next.  
  
"Shot?" I ask.  
  
She smiles. "Um… well, it's just a little something to… well, to make sure that no one takes any embarrassing pictures of you while you're wearing tight clothes."  
  
"What do you -- " I don't finish the question, as I realize just what might be embarrassing in tight clothes. I feel my face flush red hot. "I don't _think_ so."  
  
"Oh, honey, all the boys will have the same shot. It'll last all the way through the Games. Don't worry, none of them will be talking about it." She jabs a needle into my arm without waiting for my response to the idea that certain things are apparently being shut down for the rest of my life. She and the others go back to talking about a fashion show they saw, and they dump me into a much less uncomfortable bath, this one full of moisturizers and scented oils. They're much gentler without the scrub brushes, and I can't help but notice that being gently caressed by three pretty women is having absolutely no effect on me.  
  
I decide that I will take this to the grave, no matter how soon that is.  
  
My hair is cleaned next, probably the first time in years it's gotten a real wash. Medusa coos over how thick and curly it is, and says they can't possibly cut it. Instead, they opt for some kind of goo that's supposed to make it shiny, and spend half an hour getting the curls in exactly the places they want them. By the time they're done, Beech has come around the curtain. He's naked as the day he was born, and trying desperately to cover himself with his big hands. One of his preps goes running for Lepidus.  
  
We both end up standing against the wall while the remaining preps clean up. I'm wearing the string bracelet from Digger, and nothing else.  
  
"You clean?" I ask.  
  
"Never been so clean in my life," he says. "They even gave me some shot so I look better on camera. Who knew there was a shot for that?"  
  
I consider explaining it to him, then decide not to. He'll probably figure it out pretty soon.  
  
Lepidus arrives, carrying two miners' helmets… well, something that the Capitol apparently thinks are miners' helmets. They're shiny yellow things with big, sparkly lights on them. These are set down, and Lepidus produces two wrapped packages. Each contains underwear and a gray miners' uniform. The underwear is kind of tight, and it has a little elastic pouch that pushes things forward a little more than I'm used to. The shirt is too tight to button much higher than the bottom of my ribs. It's apparently been taken in specifically for this purpose. The pants are kind of tight, too.  
  
"I think you brought me the wrong size," Beech says. "I can't hardly bend over in these without worrying about them splitting. That wouldn't work too good in the mines."  
  
"You're not going to the mines," Lepidus says. "This is meant to enhance your… um, masculinity. It will appeal to sponsors. They like to see boys who look like big men who can win."  
  
I look down. "What, exactly, do they think we're competing at?"  
  
"Just do as you're told. And don't annoy Albinus any more. He's your only lifeline in the arena."  
  
"Then I don't think I've got a lifeline."  
  
Lepidus smiles nervously. "Now, we're about to go down to the chariots and meet the girls. When you're out there, you wave to the crowd. Be personable. If someone absolutely _insists_ on sponsoring you, Albinus has to send you what they want, even if he's still mad at you."  
  
I have a feeling there are ways around this, but I don't say anything.  
  
Lepidus checks us once more. He tells me not to wear the helmet, since apparently, I have great hair. I'm supposed to carry it casually. Beech's helmet is perched at a jaunty angle. Finally, he takes out a box of black powder and, adding insult to injury, artfully applies it to our faces. I try to tell him that there are sinks up at the mines, and most of the miners wash their faces before they come home, but it doesn't go anywhere.  
  
When we get downstairs, the girls are done up in similar costumes. Gilla's hair is in bouncy pigtails tied off with big hanks of oversized yarn, and the helmet has been modified so they stick out through holes in it. Maysilee's shirt has been hiked up and tied right under her bosoms, so her belly is bare. The tie is about all that's holding the shirt closed, too. Her pants are shorts, because, as everyone knows, it's smart to leave your skin uncovered in the coal mines. She has been enthusiastically decorated with the fake coal dust. Like all of us, she's wearing artfully distressed work boots, but hers are high-heeled.  
  
"I tried to tell them to do me up as a shopkeeper," she says. "I said I'd even do a sexy shopkeeper. But it turns out they have no idea there's anyone in Twelve who doesn't work in the mines. On the plus side, I've still got this." She flips up the collar of her shirt -- which is opened very wide -- and reveals the mockingjay pin. It won't show much in this get-up.  
  
Drake comes back and arranges us in the chariot. I'm pleased to see that he has a large bruise on the back of his head, where he hit the floor earlier. He doesn't mention this. He puts Maysilee and Beech front and center in the chariot, since they're tallest, then puts Gilla and me on the outside. He hands all of us dull plastic pickaxes. Since I'm already carrying my helmet, he takes away the pickaxe, deciding that I look too laden down.  
  
"And what's that crap on your wrist?" he asks.  
  
"My district token."  
  
"Looks like a craft project. Lose it."  
  
"Not a chance in hell," I say.  
  
"I'm your mentor --"  
  
"And that's his district token," someone says. I look up to see Chaff, from earlier, glaring at Drake. "You got no right to take someone's district token unless it's a weapon, and I doubt even your golden boy over there" -- he nods toward Brutus -- "could figure out how to make that little thing into a weapon."  
  
"These are my tributes. Watch your own, Chaff."  
  
"I'm keeping an eye on everything. Don't you forget it."  
  
"Pity you can't be more _hands on_ about it."  
  
Chaff rolls his eyes and turns directly to me. "You hold onto that. Looks like it means something real special. And if this ass tries to do anything, remind him that you already whipped him once. You remember that -- you've already whipped one victor. Put him down like he was nothing." He goes back to his own chariot, where Seeder is trying to calm down four frightened kids in farmer costumes. He pulls the littlest, probably a twelve-year-old, onto his lap, and starts to speak softly to her.  
  
A few minutes later, a signal sounds, and the chariots move out into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch and the others go through training for the Games.

On the way to City Circle, I have to devote most of my attention to staying on the chariot. It's built for two people, not four, and Gilla and I are kind of hanging off the edges at a slight angle. Standing still, it's no big deal. In motion, I have to hold on so tight with my free hand that my knuckles are white. I'm holding the stupid helmet in the other hand -- Gilla's got her plastic pickaxe -- so all I can do is balance. I don't even pay attention to the big screens showing everyone's progress.  
  
It's not like I haven't seen this parade every year since I was born, anyway.  
  
By the time we're in City Circle, I'm not sure I could let go if I tried, and since I'd rather not fall off the chariot on national television, I opt _not_ to try. It looks like none of the other edge-side tributes are letting go, either.  
  
My clearest view is of the District One chariot, with four kids dripping with fake gold and shimmering crystals. In the middle is a tall girl with brown hair, twisted through with golden ribbons. Beside her is a boy who looks like he could be her brother -- I remember what Lacklen said about there being no rule against picking siblings, but I still think that would be too much of a coincidence -- and on either side of the chariot, hanging off like Gilla and me, are a couple of redheaded kids wearing tiaras. The boy looks scared to death.  
  
District Two looks weirdly like us -- they're quarry workers instead of miners, but they're carrying pickaxes and made to look dusty. District Three seems to be wound up in wires. I don't have time to really get a look at anyone else, because President Snow mounts the stage for his address to the tributes.  
  
I suppose I should listen to it, since I am one this year.  
  
It's really the same as usual. The districts rebelled. The Hunger Games are a compassionate way to sate the anger of the war, taking only a few children, instead of thousands, and giving one the chance to live in the lap of luxury.  
  
"This year," he says, "we honor our second Quarter Quell -- a reminder to the districts that their price for rebellion will always be higher than the price we in the Capitol will pay. We welcome our forty-eight tributes this year from the districts of Panem. May the odds be in your favor."  
  
I look around the semi-circle. No one here looks like the odds have been much use.  
  
I glance at Maysilee. She is listening intently.  
  
The speech ends, and the chariots do another slow turn around City Circle. My hand is cramped up from the tight grip, and when we get back to the training center, I have to more or less pry it away from the chariot. I'm trying to rub out the cramp when Gia meets us and take us to the elevators.  
  
I have been in elevators before, of course; every year, we go down to the mines for a field trip, and it's considerably too far to walk to get down to the working area. But this elevator is nothing like the rickety cage elevator we take down into the depths of the earth. This like a small, crystal room, with a view down into the building. I can see stairs that lead down into the bowels of the place, and a door to a room with what looks like a gold-railed bar in it. Guards stand outside this room, and as we zoom up, I see Drake come out of it.  
  
Gia tells us that District Twelve has the twelfth floor of the building, and we'll have easy access to the roof if we want to go up for some fresh air. This is supposedly a great advantage of being from the poorest district.  
  
The door of the elevator opens into an apartment bigger than several merchants' houses in District Twelve. Wide windows give us a view of the city, the lights twinkling against the black background of the mountains, which cut into the starry sky like a jagged knife-edge. I wonder what the lake would look like from up here.  
  
I shake it off. I'm not here for the sightseeing. The elevator opens again, and Drake gets off.  
  
"Do I have any messages?" he asks without preliminaries.  
  
Gia goes to a small table and presses a button. I have no idea what it is, but apparently, it has something to do with messages, because she says, "None yet, Albinus."  
  
"I have a call out to Maris Brinn. Our usual sponsorship deal."  
  
Gia gives him an awkward smile. "As I understand it, Miss Brinn has been seeing your victor from last year. She _is_ usually a District Two sponsor."  
  
"Great. No one else, either?"  
  
"Not yet, but it's still early."  
  
"I usually have sponsors lined up before the parade."  
  
"You've been in District Two. When I was in District Seven, we often had to wait -- "  
  
"I get it," he interrupts her gruffly. "I'm assigned to the hell district. My connections can usually be counted on to be a little bit better than Blight's. I guess not anymore."  
  
With that, he stalks away to some other part of the apartment. Gia tells us all to take showers and get cleaned up for supper while she smooths things over.  
  
Beech and I are sharing a room, and he asks me sheepishly for help trying to figure out how to use the shower. I've never used a regular one, but I did peek at the one over at the Mellarks' once while I used the bathroom, and this looks nothing like it. Instead of handles, it has buttons, about a hundred of them. After a while, I figure out that one row has soap products, and another has hair soap -- I guess in the Capitol, you use different kinds of soap for different parts of your body, which I find funny, having washed myself with ashes yesterday morning. The rest of the buttons seem to make the water do different things, though I'm at a loss as to what the symbols mean. Beech decides to poke at them until he figures it out. Judging by the yelps that come out of the room while I look at the clothes they've given me, some of the settings aren't pleasant.  
  
He finally comes to one that sounds like steady water, and the yelping stops. I run my hands over the closet full of clothes, all my size, that are at my disposal. I can wear anything I want. There's a drawer full of enough clean underwear to get me through whatever's left of my life.  
  
 _You've already whipped one victor. Put him down like he was nothing._  
  
I stop, my hand hovering over the softest sweater I've ever touched. Chaff was right. Drake's an idiot, but he won this. And I beat him.  
  
I look at the string bracelet on my wrist, think about Digger and the ruined world by the lake in the woods.  
  
I guess all forty-eight of us have something that we want to go back for. But I _did_ put down a victor. Maybe I could…  
  
I clamp my jaw as tightly as I can, until it causes enough discomfort to break me out of the fantasy. I'm going to try. I promised to try. But if I go in there thinking I have some special advantage just because I lost my temper at my mentor, I'm going to get killed at the Cornucopia.  
  
Beech gets out of the shower smelling like lilacs, and I ask him to show me what he hit to get steady water. He doesn't remember, so I have to go through the same stinging process he did to get something bearable. I'll have to see if there are instructions anywhere to translate the symbols. I bet there are some good settings in there, too. I leave my bracelet on. I don't want to take the risk of Drake sending someone in and having them "accidentally" clear it away with the trash.  
  
I give myself a good long wash. It's my third in two days, but I have to get rid of the fake coal dust, before my prep team decides to give me another scrub for good measure.  
  
Besides, I could get used to this, if I had time. There are worse things in the world than a hot shower.  
  
After my shower, I consider changing into an actual suit, but I end up going for clean blue jeans and the soft sweater. I put on warm socks, and the first whole pair of shoes I've ever had. They pinch a little, and I keep looking down at my feet to make sure those shiny things are actually attached to me.  
  
By the time I get downstairs, everyone is there, including Drake and the stylists. People in serving uniforms are laying out another huge meal. I've eaten enough in the last day to make up for three weeks at home.  
  
"Glad you could join us, genius," Drake sneers.  
  
"You look nice," Gilla says. "Digger'd sure love to see you now."  
  
"It's mutual," I say.  
  
"Who are we talking about?" Gia asks.  
  
"My girl," I say. I guess I could say she's my wife, but I can't quite wrap my mouth around the word. It just doesn't feel like a word that has a connection to me. Not yet. If I live, maybe I'll learn to say it.  
  
"Uh-uh," Drake says. "No. No girl back home."  
  
"What?"  
  
"If you get far enough, they'll interview her, and that'll be all right. People will have bought in by then, and it'll be something new to know. But if you're going to get any sponsors, be a damned man."  
  
"Men… don't have girlfriends?"  
  
"Men aren't pining around after them. You want sponsors -- not to mention allies -- you better come off tough."  
  
"Allies?" Maysilee repeats.  
  
"Allies. Starting tomorrow, you're in training. None of you has much to go on alone, so you better find some way to impress the stronger kids." He sighs and leans forward, like he's the one who's been hit with a death sentence. "I don't know how much chance any of you have, anyway, but I mentored Brutus last year. _Maybe_ I can get us an in with the District Two boys. Beech, anyway. He's strong enough for them." He looks at me. "You… just try not to piss them off."  
  
"What about Gilla and me?" Maysilee asks.  
  
"You won't have trouble finding allies," he says. "Pretty girls never do. Gilla… I don't know. Look for someone who's missing a little sister, I guess. Best chance." He shakes his head. Telling a thirteen-year-old girl that she doesn't have much of a chance to live must be tiring. "Now, you're going to have two full days of training, then you'll do a demo for the Gamemakers to get your scores. Do everything. Whatever you're best at, do it a lot, and make sure everyone sees you. It'll help intimidate them -- if you can do anything, that is -- and it might get you some allies…"  
  
He goes on this way through the meal, taking a break every fifteen minutes or so to find something to insult me about. I start drinking the wine they bring. It doesn't taste like the raisins Danny brought, even though they both come from grapes. It's nowhere near as strong as the white liquor we tried. I'm not really paying attention to it. I notice that it's getting very warm and peel off my sweater. Drake says something to me, but it sounds like he's on the far end of a cave, which seems like an excellent place for him to be. I finish off my glass of wine and try to put it down, but there's no room. For some reason, there are four wine glasses there already.  
  
"Haymitch!" Maysilee hisses into my ear.  
  
I sit up. My elbow has slipped into some kind of sticky red sauce. "What?" I ask. I realize I'm half-naked, and guess that's what she means to point out, but when I reach for my sweater, I lose my balance on the edge of the chair and fall down, my glass breaking on the edge of the table as I go. My head is spinning, and all the food I've been eating wants to come up. I look up, feeling confused and wrong-footed.  
  
Drake is smirking at me. "Yeah," he says. " _You'll_ be a contender."  
  
"I can still whip you," I say. "Even if I am a little… maybe more than a little... "  
  
"You have to be able to get up first."  
  
He turns away, unconcerned. He has good reason to be unconcerned. I can't seem to get the mechanics of getting from the floor to my feet.  
  
I pull myself over against a chair and sit on the floor until it's time for dessert. Gia comes to me and says, "Don't worry, sweetheart, we have ways to clear your head." She looks over her shoulder, and I notice that Drake is gone. "Don't tell him I gave you these." She pulls my hand up and puts two pills into it. I put them in my mouth and dry swallow.  
  
It takes about ten minutes for my head to totally clear. I have no idea what's in the pills, but they work like magic. Gia keeps feeding me water, and I hear her tell the servers not to bring any more alcohol with meals.  
  
I manage not to throw up, and when I wake up the next morning, I only have a little bit of a headache, nothing like the whoppers I remember Dad getting. I'm able to eat breakfast just fine, even though Drake harangues me all the way through it.  
  
We take the elevator down to the basement just before ten. All of us are in simple exercise clothes. I have another pair of new shoes, athletic ones, but they feel a little constricting, so I take them off. I'm barefoot when we start training.  
  
It takes me maybe five minutes to realize that not one of these people is going to be intimidated by anything I can do, and as far as allies go, the only ones strong enough to be of any use would kill me fast. I decide that my safest bet is to not show them anything, so I'll at least have the element of surprise if they think I'm easy prey. I sink back to the survival stations -- plant recognition, knots, shelters. I'm actually pretty good with improvising shelters after keeping my house together for the last five years. The real trick will be making ones that are strong enough to keep the elements out while still being invisible, and able to be broken down without leaving any traces.  
  
Beech is following Drake's instructions to the letter, doing all of the strength training and making nice with the District Two tributes. I see the way they treat him like a pet. Maybe they'll take him as an ally, but I kind of think it's more likely they'll make him _think_ they'll be allies, then knife him as soon as they get into the arena. I'll try to warn him about this.  
  
Gilla seems to understand that she's not scaring anyone. She makes friends with other younger kids from other districts. I hear the girl from District One call them "the Fodder Brigade." I watch her carefully. Her name is Filigree. She looked tall on the chariot. In person, she's gigantic. She towers over the boys on her team, and certainly over those of us from districts that don't get enough to eat. She's obviously been training, even though no one is supposed to. District One is one of the Career districts, and everyone knows they train. She can shoot at the archery station, and she's good in knife combat and spears. She even manages to outshine the District Seven kids with an axe. She tells them that she'll take pleasure taking down loggers with their own weapons.  
  
"She's nuts," Maysilee whispers, coming up to me.  
  
"Yeah. That'll give her an edge."  
  
"How come you're not at the combat stations? You could show them whatever you did to Drake."  
  
I shake my head. "How about you? Not showing off that slapping hand? I'm intimidated by it."  
  
"I've tried everything. I can't find anything that I'm better than everyone else at." She bites her lip. "I'm kind of watching the others to see what they're bad at."  
  
"That's a good plan."  
  
"How is anything good about figuring out how I'm going to kill these people?"  
  
"It means you go home alive. That's good."  
  
"Why do I have more of a right to live than they do? You said it yourself. This is my fault."  
  
I pull her toward the little shelter I just finished, and duck inside. "I _also_ said I shouldn't have said it that way. It's not your fault."  
  
"It is, though. Me. The others. That's why there are so many of us."  
  
I grab some plastic wrap that I didn't use and crinkle it loudly. "Be careful. We're bugged here."  
  
"I don't have anything else to say, anyway."  
  
"This is not your fault. You stop acting like it is. Everyone here has a right to be alive, but the fact is, forty-seven of us won't be at the end. You promise me that you'll be trying to live, okay?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Not very convincing." I shake my head. I feel stupid crinkling the paper, and I guess that they'll be getting suspicious by now, but I have to get through to her. "The only person whose fault it is is the one who made up the Quell. Who made up the Games in the first place. And whoever signed the treaty that allows them. It's stupid. You have a right to live. You try to."  
  
She looks at me doubtfully, and I don't get an answer out of her, because we've been noticed. The shelter comes down easily, and the trainer frowns deeply at me.  
  
Maysilee and I go off to separate stations. I see her making a serious effort, and hope I've gotten through to her, since it's my fault in the first place that she feels this way.  
  
We don't sit together at lunch. It just seems like a bad idea after possibly being caught conspiring. A big boy from District Four steers Maysilee over to the Career table. Gilla eats with the rest of the young kids, and Beech is at the Career table as well. I can't think of anywhere to go so I sit down alone. To my surprise, the boys from District Eleven join me.  
  
"Chaff said you're the ally to make," one of them says, and holds out his hand. "I'm Huller Green. This is Cotton Lawrence."  
  
I shake their hands. "Haymitch Abernathy. Pleased to meet you. I wasn't planning on having allies."  
  
"In case you have to kill us?" Cotton asks, grinning.  
  
"That'd be about it," I say.  
  
They smile, and I think they understand. They don't talk about being allies anymore, and we have a meal together. I get them to tell me about District Eleven, where it's warm even in the winter, and the dirt is red. I try to imagine red dirt, and come up blank, even though I read a book once that talked about it. They want to know what color dirt is in District Twelve, and all I can come up with is "dirt-colored," which doesn't help.  
  
We train together for the afternoon session, though they want to go to the ranged weapons stations, which I'm not very good at. Toward the end of the day, we go to the knife fighting booth, where the assistants pose as enemies. I somehow think that in the arena, our enemies won't be wearing armor that knives can't cut through, so I'm not sure how useful it is, though this is programed to light up where we hit them. I turn out to be good at this -- good enough at it that I wish I hadn't shown it here.  It's most of the same moves I learned to get away from people, only with a blade added in one hand. I decide not to be at the knife stations anymore.  
  
After all, knives, I can get back in the apartment. I sneak one off the dinner table, take it up to the bedroom, and shred several of the outfits they gave me, which I've set up as my own dummies.  
  
Beech looks at them, kind of green, and says, "I didn't know you could do that."  
  
"Me, either. Hope I don't have to. Anyways, it'll be harder when they're moving. Don't tell anyone downstairs I can do it."  
  
"But those guys I'm allies with --"  
  
"Beech, they're going to stab you in the back as soon as you turn it to them."  
  
"Nah. They're good guys. You should join us, too. They said those guys from Eleven you were training with aren't going to last long."  
  
The next morning, I don't get to work with Cotton and Huller. Apparently, not everyone thinks they're fodder. The girls from District Six have latched onto them for the day. I go back to my station-by-station tour of the training center. I'm pretty good with knots, hopeless with spears, and way out of my depth with camouflage. Stealth is okay. Maysilee is at the station with me, and she's much better at it. I guess I've never been one for sneaking around, while she's had a good bit of practice at it.  
  
None of the stations seem designed for passing coded messages to other tributes. We'd probably both excel at that.  
  
We do a few more stations together, and she suggests that we declare an alliance. I tell her that I'm not going to have allies, especially allies who think they deserve to die.  
  
She smiles. "Okay, I get it. I'll fight."  
  
"Good. But I still don't want allies."  
  
"Fine. Go it alone. I'll go it alone, too, and we'll see who lasts longer."  
  
"Should we put a bet on it?"  
  
"How would the winner collect?"  
  
I consider it. "That's a good point. Besides, I wouldn't exactly feel like celebrating."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Don't get sentimental about it."  
  
She laughs.  
  
I take another long shower at the end of the day. I'm starting to like ending the day clean, and slipping into bed between sheets that have been washed while I've been out. I'm sure it's just to lull us into forgetting we're here to be murdered, but I don't care. I'm not forgetting that. It doesn't mean I can't enjoy what they throw at me in the meantime.  
  
I ask for paper so I can write a long letter to Digger and another one to Mom, but this request is denied. Contact with our home districts is apparently over. After Drake goes out for the evening -- he has a date, in the middle of this -- Gia offers to listen to what I have to say, and pass it on to them if I can't go back and say it myself.  
  
I guess most years, they have training in the morning on the third day, because Drake is grumbling about missing time, but this year, with forty-eight tributes to evaluate, the Gamemaker sessions go on all day. We all mill around in the dining area while we wait. I talk to Huller and Cotton, along with the District Six girls they've befriended, Drusilla and Mariam. I try to get an idea of how things are in District Six, and who the girl we buried might be, but I can't find a good way to bring the conversation around to who might have been whipped and then disappeared just recently. I do get the impression that there's been a crackdown in Six, and trains are being thoroughly searched now. Maysilee, who's joined us by this point, looks pained. She is wearing her mockingjay pin, and it's very obvious that Mariam recognizes it, but no one says anything.  
  
It's quite late by the time they get to District Twelve. They've been going boy-girl-boy-girl with each district, and Beech goes first. He says he's going to show them how strong he is. Gilla is weeping, because she doesn't believe she has any useful skills, and she hasn't done well at any of the stations. I tell her to do something she knows from home.  
  
Once she's gone, it's just Maysilee and me. "What are you going to do?" I ask her.  
  
"I'm going to pretend I didn't show up, then sneak around and jump on them from the back of the judging platform."  
  
"Yeah, right."  
  
She shrugs. "We'll see. They might have some way to prevent that."  
  
"Wait -- you're seriously going to try it?"  
  
"Hey, you're the one who said to do my best."  
  
"You listen to me _way_ too much."  
  
The door opens, and the attendant calls, "Haymitch Abernathy!"  
  
I go in.  
  
A boy my age is serving as a waiter. He's the only one showing any interest in the proceedings. The Gamemakers look worn out from their heavy schedule of watching us today, and they are picking listlessly at their food. One of them, near the edge of their platform, has a steak knife in his hand, and I know what I mean to do.  
  
I tell them my name and my district.  
  
"And what are you going to do for us?"  
  
"I need the knife station assistants."  
  
A button is pushed somewhere and the door slides up. The four knife fighting experts come in, carrying their capped knives.  
  
"Mr. Abernathy, do you plan to arm yourself?" one of the Gamemakers asks.  
  
I shake my head, look at the assistants, and say, "Grab me."  
  
For a bare second, I worry that this was a bad choice, but then I am back on the Seam, back where Hazelle Purdy is mocking me while her friends hold me back. I know how to get away from this.  
  
I back up hard, throwing the one holding me into his companions, forcing them to trip. A swift punch to one side takes care of the one coming at me. I jump up onto the edge of the Gamemakers' platform and grab the loose steak knife, then launch myself down at the first one running at me.  
  
The fight takes two minutes.  
  
At the end of it, all of them have had to step back because their armor has registered lethal blows.  
  
The Gamemakers are watching me. The Capitol boy waiting on them is white as a sheet, and his eyes are wide.  
  
The head Gamemaker leans forward. "Thank you, Mr. Abernathy. You're dismissed." He smiles. "As soon as you give me my knife back."  
  
I go up and return it to him.  
  
When I go upstairs, I don't say how well I did. Gilla wasn't able to do anything; she says she missed two throws with the spear, then just hid in a shelter she made. She's realized that she's going to die, and she's sobbing. Beech says the judges didn't seem very impressed. When Maysilee comes up, she seems happy, but doesn't say anything in front of Gilla.  
  
That night, they give out the scores. Filigree, from District One, must have proved that she's completely crazy, because they give her an eleven. The Careers average about nine. I can't keep track of most of the numbers, though the running average on the screen is showing six point two. Huller gets a seven. Cotton manages to pull an eight.  
  
They reach District Twelve.  
  
Beech has a six. Gilla is given a two. The announcer's voice picks up with a little bit of excitement.  
  
"And our last two tributes bring the score up! Haymitch Abernathy -- ten!" I take a deep breath. It may mean sponsors. It will also mean other tributes gunning for me. The announcer goes on. "And finally, Maysilee Donner… also a ten! This will be a banner year in District Twelve!"  
  
Drake seems put out by the fact that the girl who slapped him and the boy who laid him out flat are considered his best bets. He grumbles that we can work with what we've got, tells Gia to get Gilla calmed down by morning, and tells us to get some sleep.

Tomorrow, it's back to the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in comments that I would be doing "interlude" chapters back in D12, but that didn't work. Instead, I'll be doing some outtakes when the story is finished.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch and the others are prepped for Caesar's show.

**Part Two: Allies**

  
**Chapter Ten**  
"I'll see you one at a time," Drake says over breakfast. "It'll take as long as it takes. Tomorrow, you'll be with your prep teams and stylists, getting you to look good on Caesar's show. Today, we're going to make sure you don't come off as idiots anyway -- at least if we can. I'll start with Callan. Then Berryhill. Neither of you should be too difficult. After that, Donner. See if we can get you not to slap Caesar Flickerman. Then Abernathy. I anticipate that taking a while. Whoever's not with me is with Pelagia, learning not to slump around like cavemen. If it's possible." He shakes his head, obviously having already made his mind up on the possibility. "Callan!"  
  
Gilla stares at her plate.  
  
"Callan, do you have a problem?"  
  
"What does it matter?" she asks.  
  
"It probably doesn't, but let's make an effort. Come on."  
  
She sighs and follows him into the other room.  
  
Gia gives us all an awkward smile. "Now, I know most of you haven't had much of a chance to behave in formal settings. Have any of you been to a formal dance?"  
  
Even Maysilee hasn't. Formal dances aren't exactly common in District Twelve. We dance a fair bit, but it's barefoot in the summer, usually with someone's fiddle or dulsy for a melody, and everyone clapping to keep the time. I have a feeling this won't be a useful experience for television. I can't say I've ever seen anyone go out on Caesar's stage barefoot.  
  
"All right," Gia says. "Albinus will go over content of your interviews. I suppose he knows that considerably better than I do. Let's talk about being graceful and well-mannered…"  
  
And so we begin another session of manners training. This one, at least, seems more useful in everyday life than the forks… if such a thing as everyday life is ever going to happen again.  You don't need to own anything in particular for this sort of thing.  It's just about how to properly talk to people and move around gracefully. Maysilee gets the brunt of it -- she will need to be in high heels, so Gia requires her to move around in them all day today. She's coached much more severely than Beech and I on how to properly sit, as well. Apparently, girls are expected to know these things better than boys. Beech and I are allowed to sit comfortably, though not to slouch. Gia shows us tricks to make it seem like we're deeply engaged in whatever we're saying. She also shows us a movie about a formal ball, and has us mimic scenes from it.  
  
Gilla comes back and Beech goes off to his session with Drake. Gilla doesn't need to wear heels, which Maysilee considers highly unfair. Gia instructs her to be cheerful and bouncy, which is about as far I can imagine from the frightened, withdrawn girl I see in front of me. This is a girl who's already given up.  
  
"I can't," she says.  
  
"Of course you can. Just think about it like… like…" Gia sighs. "Honey, you need to make an effort."  
  
"Think about Sae, back at the Home," I suggest. "She'd want to see you fighting, right?"  
  
"I guess."  
  
"So this is just another way of fighting."  
  
"Thank you, Haymitch," Gia says. "And he's right, honey. You give this your all."  
  
So Gilla Callan spends what's likely to be one of the last days of her life pretending to bounce around, like she's so excited to meet a famous Capitol man that she can barely contain herself. Oddly enough, this seems to actually cheer her up.  
  
We practice our smiles. Gilla's is supposed to be sweet, and mostly succeeds. I can't seem to get one that Gia approves of. Maysilee is shown pictures of actresses in magazines.  
  
"Why am I supposed to be acting like... like…" Maysilee makes a gesture at the magazine, where a young actress is flirting heavily with her co-star. "These girls don't exactly look like they'd last long in the arena. Not a very good bet, if that's what the sponsors are after."  
  
"It sells," Drake says, bringing Beech back. "Everyone wants to feel connected to the good-looking ones. Good-looking people look like winners. They can imagine you on their television screens."  
  
"They don't have to imagine me. I'll be right there."  
  
"Stop arguing with me, and don't start with Caesar. Your turn."  
  
She heads away.  
  
"Hey, Maysilee!" I call.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Those spike heels would make handy weapons."  
  
She grins. "Trust me. I'm keeping it in mind." She gives Drake a smile that is distinctly _not_ like one from the magazines.  
  
Drake flares his nostrils and makes a disgusted sound as he leads her into the practice room.  
  
Maysilee's session takes much longer than Beech's or Gilla's. Gia has us practice walking, and takes pictures of our facial expressions so we can see when we look silly.  
  
I have seen maybe eleven photographs of myself -- one every year in school (Mom doesn't buy copies of these, and I try to avoid them), then the one they showed on television last night. Add that to the parade shots, and that's more or less all the visual evidence I have that I exist. The pictures Gia is taking are silly and funny and I actually laugh at them. "Do I really do that thing with my nose when I'm thinking?" I ask, pointing to a weird sort of wrinkle. "Does it really look this dumb?"  
  
"It doesn't last as long as the picture makes it look," she says. "But you probably want to avoid it, if you can. That'll be the exact frame they try to freeze on."  
  
Gilla asks to have her picture taken more, and our prep session momentarily turns into goofing around, trying to make Gilla laugh. Beech picks her up and spins her around. I pull on her pigtails. We wrap her up in expensive clothes and she pretends to be a silly Capitol model.  
  
"We do that sometimes at the Home," she says when we dump her onto the couch, wrapped in silk and draped with Gia's pearls. "Me and the other girls. We pretend we're having a fashion show. Digger painted my lips with berry juice once."  
  
"Oh, you should tell Caesar about that. That will go over very well."  
  
"Am _I_ allowed to talk about Haymitch's girlfriend?"  
  
"If she's your friend, I don't see why not, unless Albinus told you not to talk about your friends."  
  
She shrugs. "He said I should talk about whatever might make people feel sorry for me. What about you, Beech?"  
  
"I'm supposed to talk about my strategy," he says carefully. I'm not sure he knew the word before today. "You know, how I'm stronger than a bunch of people I trained against, and stuff like that."  
  
Since having the ability to toss people around like rag dolls isn't exactly a _strategy_ , I guess he still doesn't know what it means. Beech isn't going to be much of a competitor. I hope he doesn't try anything stupid, like getting in the way of someone who may actually _have_ a strategy. There's no way he'll get through the arena if he does that.  
  
And that's when it really hits me: If Beech lives -- or Gilla, or Maysilee -- it means I'm dead.  
  
It's not that I hadn't thought about it before, not that I didn't appreciate it in theory. But for the first time, looking at empty-headed Beech stumbling over his "strategy," and at Gilla wrapped up in her finery, it really hits me in the gut. If I want to live, all three of these people have to die, and Huller and Cotton, and the giant crazy girl from One. There's no way around it. Forty-seven people are going to cease to exist.  
  
"Haymitch?" Gia says.  
  
"I hate this Game," I say.  
  
She looks away from me. "Let's work on your posture," she says.  
  
Drake keeps Maysilee for well over three hours, and when she comes out, she doesn't look pleased at all. I don't have a chance to talk to her about it, because he crooks his finger at me, looking like the weight of the entire universe has just fallen on his shoulders.  
  
I follow him into the other room.  
  
"Sit," he says.  
  
I sit on a hard-backed chair that looks like the ones in Caesar Flickerman's show. Drake circles around me, giving me hostile glares.  
  
"You're never going to pull off charming," he says.  
  
"I wasn't going to try that."  
  
"Oh, you already have a plan. Without the advice of your mentor. Why am I not surprised?"  
  
"I don't have a _plan_. I just know I'm not charming. Can you see me trying to kiss someone's hand? I'd look dumb."  
  
He circles a few more times, then sits down across from me. "Fine. What's your strategy?"

"For the interview?"

"For the Games."  
  
"How can I have a strategy before I see the arena? Won't it pretty much have to change if the arena's something I'm not expecting? Or if I don't get any weapons? And even if I did have one, telling the other tributes wouldn't be very smart."  
  
"The _only_ thing you've got going for you is that over-active brain of yours. You're not stronger than most of them. You're decent with the knife, but you're not brilliant. The reason the judges gave you that ten is… I don't even know."  
  
"It's because I know how to react when someone grabs me. And because I stole their steak knife."  
  
"The point is, it's not because you're the most proficient. It's because you're clever. If you don't impress them with that, you've got nothing."  
  
"Impress who? You already told me you're not going to get me any sponsors."  
  
"I don't have any choice but to get all of you any sponsors I can. But I mean the other tributes. I haven't had _any_ alliance offers for you yet."  
  
"I don't want allies."  
  
"That's how the Games are played."  
  
I shrug. "I don't want to play the game."  
  
"Then enjoy a painful death."  
  
"What would they do? If I just… didn't play? You know… if my strategy was to stay away from the other tributes and live as long as I can."  
  
"There are a few every year who try it. They'll force it. And if you don't play along, they'll just send something to kill you. Probably in some horrible way that they'll show live to your mother and your girl back home. Got it?"  
  
I look away. I hadn't thought about _that_ , either. About Mom watching me die, the way I've been watching her die for the better part of two years. About Digger seeing my body torn apart.  
  
At least Lacklen won't see anything. Unless he's sitting on top of the television, he'll be able to just remember a red blur.  
  
"So, in other words, I better look like I'm doing something."  
  
"In the arena? You better _actually_ be doing something. But we're not there yet. Let's talk about Caesar. He always tries to drag tributes around into something personal -- I have no idea why -- but you only have three minutes, so don't waste them being maudlin."  
  
"What should I waste them being?"  
  
"I have no idea. I've been talking to the production team back in District Twelve -- they're getting information in case you live past the Cornucopia -- and the only people who have much to say about you are your family, your girl, and the baker's kid. Seems you don't make a lot of friends there, either."  
  
I'm somehow not surprised that the friends I've been spending time with this spring haven't exactly been coming out of the woodwork. Most of them are Maysilee's friends first.  
  
Drake rolls his eyes and goes on. "Of course, no one's saying it outright, but the team is getting the idea that people think you're big for your britches. I guess we could use that."  
  
I shake my head. "They don't like that I take poetry classes. Do you want me to recite poetry?"  
  
He leans back as if I've struck him, and I think he actually almost retches. "One stanza, and I'll kill you myself."  
  
So we start our back and forth on just what I _am_ going to spend three minutes with Caesar Flickerman talking about. Drake nixes anything at all from home, unless Caesar absolutely won't let it go, and then I'm supposed to twist it into how I'm smart enough to beat anything. Somehow. I can talk about adapting to the arena. It might even sound threatening after the better tributes have given actual ideas about what they're going to do, though Drake doubts it.  
  
I have no idea how long we've been at it when he finally decides that he can't do anything with me, and I'm on my own. My stomach is full, so it doesn't rumble to remind me of the time. It seems to be late, by the sun outside the windows.  
  
The servers set out another fine meal, but I think everyone has finally reached the same conclusion I did. Getting ready for Caesar is somehow making it real.  
  
I go to bed early and watch television with Beech. It's all Games news. People are talking about the scores, mostly. The real nonsense hasn't started yet -- the stuff they put on every year, where people wear tributes' faces on tee shirts and make up songs and dances for their favorites. Last year, there was a dance called The Brutus -- there was even a special song for it made up after the Games -- and they show Brutus himself dancing it in a Capitol club with his fans. They cut to an interview with him, where he's nearly jumping on the furniture, talking about how "primed" his tributes are, and how anyone with sense will bet on District Two early this year.  
  
There's some talk about Maysilee and me. It's weird for District Twelve to get high scores. There's no talk about Beech or Gilla, and I decide to turn it off before it becomes too obvious that there _won't_ be talk.  
  
Beech manages to go to sleep, but I lie awake in the dark for a long time. I wonder if I will end up killing Beech. I don't think I could kill Maysilee or Gilla, unless I go crazy in the arena. I wonder if they could kill me.  
  
I mentally go through the tributes I've been watching. I will steer clear of Filigree from District One unless she's seriously weakened. I don't want to kill Chaff's tributes, so I will steer clear of them, too, and hope someone else does. I think I could take the boys from Four, who are too cocky for their own good.  
  
I decide that what I told Mom at the Justice Building is probably true -- if I start hunting people, I'll get killed.  
  
I think about what Drake said, about them killing me with mutts or some other disgusting thing if I don't play along. I can kill mutts. I'm pretty sure about that. If I look for mutts, maybe they'll think I'm playing and not bother me with anything else.  
  
It's not much of a strategy.  
  
I go out a little after midnight. The television is on in the living room area. Maysilee is on the couch, watching it numbly. I sit down across from her.  
  
"They keep showing us in the parade," she says, pointing at the television. "That stupid outfit. What's my father thinking now?"  
  
"That you're still alive," I tell her.  
  
"I guess." She picks at the edge of a throw pillow. "Haymitch… Drake told me to flirt with Caesar."  
  
"I think Caesar probably gets that so much he won't even notice."  
  
"I don't want to. I want to talk about the shop. And the way things are in Twelve. About how I wish we weren't against each other."  
  
"We are, though."  
  
"I don't mean in the arena," she says. "Though I wish we weren't against each other there, either. I just… it's the last chance I'll have to say something. I wanted to be mayor so I could say things. I want to say that we shouldn't be arguing with each other all the time, and everyone should be able to do the kinds of jobs they want. And take the classes they want."  
  
"Nobody makes us like that, Maysilee. That's the way we decided to be."  
  
"That time at the school board meeting, when I spoke and said you should take our classes…"  
  
"Um… thanks for that."  
  
"It was my parents' idea. They think everything sounds more powerful if you can get a kid to say it."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Not that I wouldn't have, if I'd thought of it. Or that I didn't really want you in classes. I like having you in class. But come on -- what ten year old actually says, 'I'd like to address the school board now'? It doesn't work that way. Even if they've managed to convince themselves of it, it's really some grown-up pulling the strings." She sighs. "The point is, my parents _aren't_ making me talk now. And I'm not going to let Drake pull my strings, either. What are they going to do… kill me _more_?"  
  
"They could withhold food. They could make the mines around your platform malfunction so you die as soon as you step off. They could freeze you to death. They could keep you away from water. They could --"  
  
"I get it, Haymitch." She watches quietly for a few minutes. They show us in the chariot. She wrinkles her nose. "Drake said he'd keep me fed through the Games if I went to his room tonight."  
  
"You should have put one of those heels through his head."  
  
"I would have if he'd tried to do more than talk about it. How do you like that? Four weeks ago, I was talking about nonviolent resistance. Now, I'm figuring out how to kill people with a pair of expensive shoes."  
  
I smile. "Maybe I should be glad you won't have heels in the arena. Unless it's a formal ballroom. I don't think they've done that. Put everyone in a big ballroom in tuxedos and gowns, and see what we can do to each other without ever being rude."  
  
"I'm not going to kill you, Haymitch," she says, apropos of nothing.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's just a given. I'm not going to kill you. I promise."  
  
"I… I probably won't kill you, either. But what if it comes down to us?"  
  
"It won't. Not a chance." She grins. "A ballroom arena, huh? 'Oh, dear, pardon me for just a moment while I borrow the salad fork to kill the other guests. _Hors d'oeuvre_ , darling?'"  
  
"Oh, I couldn't eat another bite," I say. "I wish the orchestra would speed up. This slow tempo doesn't make it easy to stomp people to death. Especially since we don't get the heels."  
  
"Well, I'm sure they'd give you watch chains or something. And you could use the bow tie as a noose."  
  
"And we could hit each other with gloves, like in Gia's movie."  
  
"Dip them in poison first, for the Games."  
  
"Right."  
  
She smiles wearily. "Do you think they'll show interviews from home?"  
  
"Not where we can still see them," I say. "I bet they're showing everywhere else, but this is a separate feed."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"No commercials."  
  
"Oh. Right."  
  
We don't talk more. She falls asleep on her end of the couch and I fall asleep on mine, and when we wake up in the morning, we're both too stiff to properly walk around in our formal clothes. Annoyed, Drake orders up people to give us massages. Maysilee waggles her eyebrows like this was all in some plan.  
  
While we're doing this, the stylists meet up with Beech and Gilla and send them on to their preps. They come back dolled up like rich Capitol kids. Gilla's in a fluffy silver dress with sparkly black stones on it. Beech is wearing a sharp suit with a black velvet jacket. Both of them have the lamplights from our miners' hats on the costume somewhere -- Gilla's is on a bracelet, and Beech's is a lapel pin. The lights don't look any less stupid in this setting.  
  
Maysilee and I are whisked off for prep next. I get another thorough washing, though not as painful as the first one. About halfway through, Lepidus arrives, looking alarmed, and experts are called in to look at my mouth. Three of my teeth are declared too revolting for close-ups on national television, and someone comes in and pulls them, replacing them with new teeth. This is apparently nothing unusual. My mouth is numbed, making me worry about talking, but as soon as they're done, they shoot something else into me, and everything works fine, though my jaw is killing me.  
  
Once this major crisis is averted, they return to moisturizing and make-up. I'm dusted with some kind of powder which will keep me from washing out under Caesar's lights. Igerna tells me that it's harder with boys than with girls, because they have to make sure we don't _look_ like we're wearing makeup, even though we have to if we're going to be seen at our best.  
  
They present me with a suit that looks different from Beech's. No velvet for me.  
  
"Everyone just loved that shirt you wore for the reaping," Fabiola says. "It's outdated, of course, but we can play with the form." Lepidus has created a black silk shirt for me, high-collared like Dad's, with buttons made of shiny black stone. "And here," she says, putting a string tie around my neck. "It's indigo. To go with your district token."  
  
"I'm surprised Drake didn't tell you to hide it."  
  
"He did," she says, and winks.  
  
Medusa does something with my hair. I don't know what, exactly, though she declares herself transported with joy over the effect. I don't really see much difference in the mirror.  
  
"Your girl was on television last night," Igerna says. "They didn't _say_ she was your girl, but I know what color that bracelet of yours is.  Now I know why.  She's cute as a little button!"  
  
Fabiola clears her throat and Igerna quickly retreats.  
  
"I'm sorry," Fabiola says. "We aren't allowed to talk to you about what's on television. Igerna knows that."  
  
I stare at myself in the mirror. "Can you just tell me if they talked to my mom? If she's coughing, or if she looks all right?"  
  
Fabiola looks around carefully. "She seems okay. Don't you worry about her."  
  
I don't ask any more questions. I don't want to get them into trouble. But I want to know more. I think abruptly of home -- of Lacklen and his traps, of Mom up all night coughing, of Digger kneeling in front of the fire at the Justice Building.  
  
I understand why they're not supposed to talk to us about this kind of thing, why it's not on the feed into the training center. I want to get out of the fancy clothes, go into my room, and hide until everything is over. Maybe take some of the wine they're not bringing to the table anymore, and just go fuzzy-headed for a while. I wonder if that's how Dad felt sometimes. Better to be fuzzy headed than to see straight on -- the cough that's getting worse and worse, the sons dragging themselves to school in rags…  
  
I shake my head. If I'm ever going to get home, I can't afford to _think_ about home. Not if it does this.  
  
They finish with me. Instead of going back to the apartment, we go to the lobby in the training center. It's already quite crowded, and I see white-uniformed Peacekeepers standing by. I wonder if someone's afraid we'll all get together and make a run for it. Given that they've been training us to kill people for a week, we might actually be able to do it, with all forty-eight of us.  
  
Not that anyone seems inclined to do it.  
  
The preps bring me to the District Twelve team. Everyone is dressed up now, even Gia, Drake, and the stylists. I guess I remember seeing the mentors and stylists in shots on television before, though I don't usually pay attention. Maysilee, thankfully, is wearing a perfectly normal dress -- shiny blue. Kind of tight, but nothing bad. Her pin is on the cowl. Drake is frowning at it, but doesn't say anything.  
  
The stage has been built outside the training center, so there's not really any chance for us to break away.  We're all organized as well as we can be while production assistants scurry around.  I wander to a window that looks out over City Circle.  
  
The Capitol is twinkling around us at twilight, big screens playing our preparations live, though, if it's like other years, it's being intercut with Claudius Templesmith doing spots in his studio.  Those don't show up here; the screens only show the live feed.  We're high up in the city, and as I look down, I can see other huge screens dotting the cityscape. We're everywhere.  
  
The car ducks down beneath what I guess is the studio, and we're let out. They explain the procedure to us -- three minutes each with Caesar, don't interrupt each other. Anyone who tries to make a political statement will be cut from the order and lose a chance for the sponsors to see him.  
  
Maysilee pulls her hair over her pin.  
  
We go up to the stage.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes appear on Caesar's show, then are whisked away to the arena.

The forty-eight of us file out onto the stage. It takes a long time, because they want everything to look graceful and rehearsed. The techs apparently practiced with Capitol models earlier to get the timing right. A junior producer goes down the line and verifies the pronunciation of everyone's name, even though they've already used them on several occasions.  
  
"Mr. Flickerman wants to be sure," she tells me when she gets to me. "No one else has checked, and it turns out we've been saying it wrong for one of the girls from Three since the reaping."  
  
"And he cares?"  
  
"Oh, yes. He cares."  
  
She nods toward Caesar Flickerman himself, who is bantering with the crowd as we're lined up. He is a strange looking man, whose age I can't even guess. He always wears the same flashing suit, and his skin is caked with make-up. This year, his hair, lips, and eyebrows are dark green, but that's the only difference I ever remember seeing. He's been doing this at least as long as I've been alive, and he never changes, which in the Capitol must be some kind of criminal activity, since everyone else changes their minds about looks every five minutes. Mom once said people in the Capitol would immediately strip and wander around naked in the winter if a stylist came on live television and told them frostbite was the latest thing.  
  
I think Caesar Flickerman would just keep wearing his flashing suit.  
  
I am dead last, which I guess is better than being lost in the middle. People will remember the first and the last. I do the math in my head -- with each tribute speaking for three minutes, that's two hours and twenty-four minutes to start with. Add in Caesar's patter to the audience and transition times between us, and I'm betting they've scheduled a three hour block for the interviews.  
  
It's mandatory viewing, so people will be gathered around televisions and public screens all over Panem. I'd probably be in the square if I weren't here, complaining about losing three hours to this nonsense. Mom would have a sweater on, and hopefully someone would give her a place to sit. Lacklen and I would play hangman in the dirt, or maybe Danny would come out and come up with some more interesting way to pass a few hours. Digger would do a commentary on everyone's clothes. I decide she'd like the girls from District Three, the boy in Seven, and the willowy girls from Eight, at least in terms of their outfits. She'd probably pretend to think Huller and Cotton were cuter than our tributes.  
  
I'm pretty sure she'd actually like what I'm wearing, except that I'm wearing it as a tribute in the Games. I don't think anyone I know is joking around this year. The tributes' families never do. I think Digger is probably watching at the Community Home with Mom and Lacklen, and I doubt any of them are talking about clothes. Gilla's friends at the Home are probably gathered around as well. I wonder if they're looking at each other weirdly, knowing that if one of us lives, the other dies.  
  
I don't know where Danny will be. Probably with Ruth, who's likely with the Donners. I guess it's probably Maysilee he's hoping will live. Most of my town friends will be with her. I can imagine some of the less savory people on the Seam betting about which airs I'm going to put on.  
  
As the District Ten group is led out onto the stage, Maysilee leans over to Gilla. "We'll have a long wait," she says. "Try not to fidget. The audience at home won't see, but the rich people here in the Capitol will. Do something so it doesn't look like you're bored."  
  
"Like what?" Beech asks.  
  
"Tell yourself a story," I suggest.  
  
"What kind?"  
  
Maysilee shakes her head. "We have a trick in the shop, to learn all the customers. Think of their names, and one thing that you'll remember about them and link to their names. Like, you could look at me and think, 'Maysilee. Maybe she's going to win. Maybe-Lee.' 'Filigree isn't filled with glee.' Or something like that, so you remember the sound of a name."  
  
"What good is that going to do?" I ask.  
  
"It's something to do for two hours and twenty-four minutes," she says, smiling around clenched teeth.  
  
I can see Gilla and Beech already trying it, so I guess there's some merit.  
  
A few minutes later, we are led to the stage, where we take our seats. Caesar Flickerman welcomes us and all of Panem to the Opening Interviews and states the rules like no one has ever heard them before. He does his best to make this part interesting and brief, then moves on to the interviews.  
  
I try to pay attention. I even play Maysilee's game for the first few districts. Filigree Simms -- Filigree _seems_ … to be as crazy as I thought she was in training. Caesar brings her forward and asks her about her score of eleven, and she responds by making threatening moves in his direction, then pretending to laugh it off. Jasper Fields, her first teammate, makes it easy by talking about how he _feels_ he can win… but the image in my head when I make that connection is his quick, sidelong glance at Filigree, as if asking her permission to say anything like that. Glory Marshall is wearing some kind of shiny necklace that catches the light, and that makes "Glory" easy to remember without a mnemonic. She's one of the redheads, and she brags about all the weapons she's good at. They're all ranged -- she'll be no good close up. Moonstone Gill is the last District One tribute, the other redhead. He more or less tells Caesar that he's counting on his alliance.  
  
District Two is usually the dangerous district, and it doesn't sound any different this year, though, like idiots, they tell everyone exactly what they're good at, and Pomponia Graff actually says what kind of land they're hoping to run for, if it's available. None of her teammates even has the decency to look embarrassed. If I were home, Digger and Lacklen and I would be talking about how easy it will be to avoid them. Mom would tell us that it's probably harder than it sounds. I honestly don't think it will be. These guys are good with weapons, but they're no one's brain trust.  
  
District Three had its first winner just a few years ago, and he did it pretty spectacularly, but these kids look kind of defeated already. A boy with the unlikely name of Sigh Tomby makes some effort to stir the crowd with the memory of how clever their mentor was, but I get the impression that all of them know the Gamemakers are no longer going to put electronic equipment in the arena to be appropriated.  
  
Except there has to be electricity _somewhere_. I frown. Something powers the arenas. Nothing in them works naturally. There _has_ to be a nearby power source.  
  
I start to push this away, but Mom's face floats into my head again -- not imagined, but remembered. She told me not to throw away anything my mind tosses at me, and I realize I've been doing nothing _but_ that. I can't imagine what good it would do me to find a power source. I don't know anywhere near enough about electronics to do what the District Three victor did. But my mind snags on it, and I am turning it over for the next several tributes' interviews. I hope they haven't said anything important.  
  
I tune back in when Wren Hall from District Five says something about capturing solar power. Maybe she means to cook something, or distill water. Whatever it is, it sounds like she's just told everyone that she means to park herself in one place and put up equipment as a handy guide to finding and killing her.  
  
I find myself getting frustrated as Caesar makes his way around the huge semi-circle of kids, all happily telling each other and the Gamemakers exactly how to kill them, or at least how to avoid being killed _by_ them. I guess I should be grateful, but I'm actually annoyed. No wonder the Capitol doesn't feel very threatened by the districts. I can just imagine us planning a rebellion, and going on national television to explain where we're keeping our arsenals and just which awesome people are in our spy networks, and what kind of information they can provide. We probably did, during the Dark Days. This kind of idiotic bravado is probably what got us into this mess in the first place.  
  
A few of the tributes don't go this route. I wish I believed it was because they were being smart, but I have a feeling it's just because they don't feel like they have anything intimidating to say. Madeline Frye from Seven and Poppy Denker from Eight both try the giggly girl act, complimenting Caesar's weird looks. Clovis Wilbore from Ten tries to act like Caesar's best friend. Caesar plays along, making it seem like it's a great honor to be giggled at and treated familiarly. I decide that Caesar Flickerman is the smartest person on the stage.  
  
Chaff was decent to me, so I listen more respectfully to the tributes from Eleven, though I don't think he's prepped them any better than the others. One of the girls, who has the unusual name of Wakerobin Moore, says that she's very good at identifying plants. The other one, Sage Sanders, stupidly brags about her skill with the throwing spears, guaranteeing that people will play keep-away with her, since she's tiny and not very strong otherwise. Huller and Cotton both try to be intimidating, without much success. Caesar prods all of them to talk about their families, and Huller actually does for a minute, then he seems to remember what I guess to be the same instruction Beech and I had about boys needing to look tough.  
  
"And now," Caesar says, "our final District -- last but never least… District Twelve!" He holds out his hand to Gilla and she stands. I can see that she's trembling. Caesar actually puts his hand on her shoulder to steady her as he brings her forward a few steps. He touches something on his collar, and it doesn't come over the loudspeakers when he says, "It'll be all right, honey. Relax." I only hear it because I'm close enough. I wonder how many of the others have gotten similar messages. He turns his microphone back on. "Ladies and gentlemen, Gilla Callan!"  
  
He starts her off slowly, asking her what she's been enjoying in the Capitol -- I've noticed him doing this with other nervous tributes; it must be a particularly easy question to field. Gilla answers that she loves wearing pretty clothes, then segues into talking about our little fashion show in the apartment, and how they played at it in the Community Home back in Twelve. Her voice is shaky, and she's obviously following instructions on what to talk about, but Caesar reacts to her like she's the most brilliant speaker in history.  
  
"Ah, a budding fashion model!" he booms after she timidly says that she's painted her lips with berry juice sometimes. "You're certainly pretty enough for it."  
  
She laughs. _Actually_ laughs. "No. I just… well, Digger says it's fun to get prettied up sometimes."  
  
"Digger?"  
  
"She's my friend. She looks after us at the Home a lot. She's probably rooting for Haymitch, though. She's his girl." Gilla puts her hand to her mouth. "Oh, no! I wasn't supposed to talk about that."  
  
"Ah-ha!" Caesar says, waggling his eyebrows. "Forbidden gossip from District Twelve! You know, I have it on good authority that the Community Home kids get all the best gossip. What else can you spill for us?"  
  
Gilla laughs more and blushes. "I don't know anything!"  
  
He deftly directs her back to talking about herself and her life. By the time she finishes, she's come off as a normal, happy girl -- the sort sponsors might well take to, not wanting her to die.  
  
Beech is hopeless. He isn't scared, but his brief, uninspired answers about strategy -- which all boil down to "I'm really strong" -- wouldn't fill up his three minutes without Caesar doing a lot of mugging for the cameras in between, and repeating the answers in different words, like, "So, what you're saying is, you've done a lot of heavy lifting at home?" Beech confirms these re-statements quickly, but doesn't elaborate, no matter how much Caesar prods.  
  
He introduces Maysilee next. I can tell that she's trying to get him to notice her pin and ask about it, but he carefully avoids the subject, making sure she's not given a chance to make a political statement and be booted from the interviews. I don't know how they'd do that live. Maybe they'd just cut to something else for three minutes. Maybe they'd just remove it from the recaps. Maybe the Capitol has some way of making people forget that they've ever heard something.  
  
Whatever they would have done, Caesar Flickerman does not give Maysilee an opening to sabotage herself.  
  
"Do you know you have a fan club here in the Capitol after the parade?" he asks.  
  
Maysilee looks mortified. "Because of the costume?"  
  
"I think because of the girl _in_ the costume. I know people want to know who she is! Don't you folks want to know who the lovely Maysilee is?" The audience cheers wildly. I see some boys waving signs that have her picture on them.  
  
"Well," she says. "For starters… I don't usually go around half-naked. I guess that might be shocking."  
  
There's laughter from the audience.  
  
Maysilee doesn't return it. I am surprised -- she's run meetings before, gathered up groups. But she's not even trying to connect to the audience, even though they want her to.  
  
"Also," she says, "I'm not a miner. I wouldn't have been. My parents own a sweet shop. I, uh…" She seems to lose track of what she's saying.  
  
"Well," Caesar says, "someone as sweet as you, I bet you help a lot in _that_ business! Do you watch the counter?"  
  
This seems to knock her back onto her path. "Yes! Yes, I watch the counter, and I make candies. You haven't lived until you've tried our sarsaparilla candy. And my daddy ships out of district!" She gives a big wink. This gets another laugh, and this time, she returns it. I relax a little bit.  
  
"I'll have to give that a try!" Caesar says. "Now, it's interesting what you said, about how having a shop means you're not going to be a miner."  
  
Maysilee gives a sad smile. "It's like that in Twelve. I wish it weren't. We all keep our distance so much. It's silly! There's no reason I couldn't be a miner -- I'm strong!" She flexes her muscle. "And I bet Gilla would make a fine shopkeeper, maybe a haberdashery or something. There's no reason we can't all talk to each other. It's crazy that we don't. There aren't enough people in District Twelve to have two bunches of us that hardly say 'Boo' to each other. So if you're watching at home, we're all together up here. You should watch together there. And say hello."  
  
"What a lovely idea," Caesar says. "We should all try to get along better. Can we all give a hand to Maysilee's idea?"  
  
There's surprisingly enthusiastic applause from some people in the Capitol audience.  
  
He asks her what her strengths in the Game are, but doesn’t push her for strategies. She mentions vaguely that she's good with shelter and has "pretty good" aim. She doesn't mention anything about stealth, which means there's going to be at least one other person in the arena who has a brain.  
  
Caesar finishes with her and sends her back to her seat. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our final tribute. Haymitch Abernathy!"  
  
I go forward and stand beside him. "Hey, Caesar," I say. "I feel like I know you after two and a half hours."  
  
He laughs. "And now I get a chance to know _you!_ So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"  
  
I have a choice here. I could say something important, like Maysilee did. I could try for sympathy. I could try to look superior by talking about how forty-seven of us are going to die (though that would certainly get me cut from the line-up). Instead, I say what I've been feeling for the last two hours, watching everyone on the stage give away secrets and generally throw the Games. I shrug. "I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."  
  
It's the right choice. At this point in the evening, the audience wants something to laugh at. They've had it with earnest pleas for people to get along, and pitiful little kids who are certainly going to be dead by this time tomorrow. They've had it with threatening giants from the career districts. They want someone to knock everything into a hat and poke a little fun at the proceedings, and they laugh uproariously. I grin at them. In doing this, I glance up at the screen, where coverage has temporarily cut to President Snow, who is decidedly not laughing. He sees himself, and paints a smile onto his face. I guess he doesn't think it's time to make fun of the Games.  
  
Caesar, who has been laughing with the crowd, notices this as well. "You know, with this many, and a lot of very smart Gamemakers, it won't be a lark."  
  
"I know," I say. "But I've been thinking of ways to solve problems for a long time. It's just one more problem. Well, maybe a few more than one." I grin at the audience again, and they clap. It's interesting. It's like turning a switch on and off. This far up the stage, I can see Drake down in the front row, sitting by Gia. The stylists are off in their corner, and I can't really get a good view of them. Drake is not laughing or clapping.  
  
Too bad -- he can't very well do anything about it at this point.  
  
Caesar waits for it to stop, then says, "Most people haven't been wearing their district tokens yet, but I've heard you haven't taken yours off since the train. Do you want to tell us about it?"  
  
"My girl gave it to me," I say, looking straight at Drake, daring him to make me stop. "It's indigo. That's her name -- Indigo. Everyone calls her Digger, though, like Gilla said."  
  
I wonder if Caesar will mention that the audience has actually met Digger, if my preps were telling the truth. He doesn't. Instead, he goes on. "So you have a best girl. What about your family?"  
  
"I got my brother and my mom. If I get out of that arena, I plan to get Lacklen some glasses. I figure he probably can't see me right now, unless he's on top of the television." I decide not to mention that Mom's dying. Dying is personal in a way that bad eyesight isn't.  
  
Caesar gives me a measured look, and I'm guessing that he's seen Mom on television and knows how things are. I think I'm glad that he's on my side. He doesn't press. "Word is, you're pretty smart. What's your best subject in school…?"  
  
This leads into less loaded territory, and I tell him how Maysilee's family helped me get into the academic classes. I say I like literature. This seems to confuse the audience, which is losing them. I elaborate, saying I like stories about gory battles and knights and dragons. This seems to be more understandable to them. They make movies about that kind of thing. I consider annoying Drake one more time by reciting a poem on stage -- "Ozymandias" comes to mind -- but my three minutes run out before I can.  
  
We're directed to stand up for the national anthem, then the interviews come to a close. There's less of a fuss about how we get off the stage. The lights are off and a curtain has come down from the rigging. Drake and Gia and the stylists descend on us and herd us to the elevators. As soon as the doors close, Drake turns on me.  
  
"You were told not to bring up nonsense from home."  
  
"I got them laughing. They remember me."  
  
"They remember that you're a clown, pining away over some girl back home. Do you know how hard I had to argue for them to just say that girl was a friend of your family's?" He turns on Gilla. "And what was with the giggling and gossip? I told you to play the orphan card. It was your best bet for sponsors."  
  
"Leave her alone," I say.  
  
"I'm her mentor, not you."  
  
"You haven't taught us anything. If we'd done what you'd said, we'd all sound like those District Two idiots."  
  
"Those District Two idiots," he seethes, "are heavy favorites to win the Games."  
  
"Haymitch and I got tens," Maysilee says. "The best they had was a nine, and it was the girl from One who got an eleven."  
  
"The people placing bets know the difference between having skills and having the will to win this thing. Both of you proved tonight that your heads aren't even in it. You're giving sermons, and the genius here is cracking jokes. I'll be lucky to find someone to send either of you a bottle of water." The elevator door opens, and he practically shoves us out and onto the couches. "Go ahead," he says. "Watch yourselves." He shakes his head. "I can't even stay here tonight. Pelagia, you go over it with them."  
  
"Albinus, the Games start tomorrow."  
  
"I know. And I can't do a thing for any of them. I doubt I'll be seeing them again." He goes back the elevator.  
  
Gia follows him. "You can't just leave them! You're their mentor."  
  
He presses the button for the elevator and looks over his shoulder at us. "Load up at the Cornucopia," he says. "Then try and get lost. It's the only chance any of you have." The doors open and he disappears.  
  
Gia smiles at us awkwardly. "Don't worry," she says. "He'll come around. And he'll get you sponsors."  
  
"Why would he bother?" Maysilee asks. "It's not like it's _his_ district he'd be letting down."  
  
Gia doesn’t answer this. "Come on," she says. "Let's watch the recaps. Personally, I think you all did beautifully."  
  
The recaps aren't the full show. That will air again in late night, when we'd better be sleeping. We each get a little snippet. They seem to have liked my insult to the other tributes, as that's what they play. Maysilee jokes that she's not always half naked. Gilla laughs wildly. Beech mutters something and Caesar picks up the rest of his section.  
  
The coverage goes to the street, and I guess this is the broadcast that goes to District Twelve, since it's all about us. Despite Drake's worries, Maysilee's fan club is very excited, and are taking her advice to heart, even though it had nothing to do with them. They are making a great point of trying to get along with the other fan clubs.  
  
"There you have it," I say. "It's a real revolution."  
  
She makes a nasty gesture in my general direction.  
  
It seems I also have a fan club now. Some of them are very silly girls who must be driving Digger crazy, but there are also some boys who say they like to read. One of them is wearing glasses. He takes them off and says, "I need a new pair, so I'm going to send these to his brother! I got a brother, too."  
  
"Will they let him do that?" I ask Gia.  
  
"I don't know. I've never heard of it being tried."  
  
I shake my head, wondering at the Capitol, where people think nothing of sending us off to kill each other, but are touched enough by an offhand joke to offer to send expensive things to our families.  
  
The telephone rings and Gia picks up. She speaks softly so as not to disturb us while we watch an entire phalanx of silly girls gush over Beech, and several old women weeping over Gilla. I have a feeling Drake didn't even think to ask them to be sponsors, because they're all but begging to be allowed to give her money.  
  
The coverage cuts back to the studio just as Gia gets off the phone. She comes over to Maysilee and says, "I'm sorry, honey, but the Gamemakers have vetoed your pin in the arena."  
  
"What? But…"  
  
"They say it's an extra weapon, or a tool."  
  
"It's not a weapon! And I can't think what I'd use it for as a tool. They just don't like it because -- "  
  
"-- because they're afraid of birds," I finish for her. "What are you going to do? It's not like it _means anything_." I cup my hands by my ears to remind her that people are listening.  
  
She glares at me, then rips the pin off her dress, taking a large piece of silk with it. She throws it across the room and storms out.  
  
Gia picks it up. "I'll just… take care of this. Make sure it gets back to… to District Twelve. One way or another."  
  
I nod, and follow Maysilee. She's in the kitchen. I turn on the water.  
  
"What's that for?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe it's hard to hear over."  
  
"Why would you say that?" she asks. "I mean, what does it matter now if they _do_ hear something?"  
  
I turn up the water and lean in, pretending to hug her. Well, actually hugging her, I guess, but pretending to mean it. I whisper directly into her ear. "How long do you think it will take them to figure out that your sister and your friends know that symbol, too? Unless it's not a symbol. Unless it's just a pretty pin that you picked up somewhere."  
  
"But I want people to know. I want people to fight."  
  
"We're nowhere near fighting. Let it go, Maysilee. If you win this, you can pick it up again and poke it straight through Snow's eyes. But not yet."  
  
She nods. I can feel the motion of her hair against my face. She pulls away, wiping her face, then goes back to the living room.  
  
"I'm sorry, Gia," she says. "It's just… it was a present from my parents. I think it belonged to my grandmother or something. I guess I didn't want to disappoint them by not wearing it."  
  
"I'm sure they'll understand, dear. For now, it's in my keeping. I won't let anything happen to it."  
  
Maysilee nods.  
  
There is nothing else we can say to each other. Gia sends us to bed and tells us to try and sleep.  
  
Beech is snoring within the hour. I don't know how long I listen to him before I finally drift off. In my dreams, I find myself sailing with Odysseus on the wine dark sea. My brother, wearing the glasses that the boy on the street wants to send him, says that he can see the whole world. Digger appears as Athena -- "Hey," she says, "I even have the gray eyes for it!" -- and tells me to follow the thread. I try to argue that we're in the wrong myth for that, but she laughs it off, the same way she laughs it off when I tell her she should take fancy classes.  
  
I wander from island to island all night, and I know it's the arena, and all of the monsters are mutts they've sent against us, but I can't seem to do anything about them.  
  
I am exhausted by the time Lepidus and the preps arrive to wake us up. The girls have already been taken to their hovercraft. I complain that it's a waste of money to bring us all in separate hovercrafts, but at least there's room to eat something, and choke down some really strong coffee. There's not much time, though. The arena must be close. The windows go black.  
  
Lepidus tells us that the stylist generally goes with the tribute into the launch room for final prep, but obviously, he can't be with both of us. I tell him to go with Beech. I can handle getting dressed by myself.  
  
We find my launch room first, then Beech and Lepidus leave. I put on the year's uniform, which is waiting for me in a box. Nothing special. A tee shirt. Khaki pants. A jacket. I probably won't need the jacket right away, but I put it on, since it will be hard to handle at the Cornucopia.  
  
My fear is starting to creep up on me. The world is coming to me in those slow, photographic flashes again. I see the lights around a small round platform come on. A red flashing light under an intercom. A voice says to go to the tube.  
  
I go to the platform. My eyes dart around the launch room, taking in the discarded box (I note this in great detail for some reason) and the hairbrush and grooming supplies that I didn't bother with on the dressing table. I see the clock ticking its way down. Every second seems to register itself in my brain.  
  
The tube comes down around me, and the platform starts to rise.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch survives his first day in the arena.

The world continues to move in flashes. I see the smooth walls of the tube. I look up and see blue sky as the top opens. I keep my head tipped up so my eyes will adjust more quickly to the light, and when we finally make it into the arena, I'm the only one around me not blinking.  
  
The tube lowers.  
  
I am in the fantasy world my mother imagined for us at the Justice Building. An almost endless field of flowers, fragrant woods, beautiful sunshine. Butterflies flutter over the grass, and I can hear birds singing in the trees to my right. It smells like lilacs and fresh-turned earth. For a split second, I think that I have accidentally stepped off the platform and died, and it's turned out that there's an afterlife after all.  
  
But I haven't died.  
  
Not yet.  
  
I see the clock counting down the final sixty seconds before the Games begin. Forty-nine.  
  
The other tributes I can see are all stunned by the beauty of the place, smelling the fresh, fragrant air. I have a piece of luck for once -- I'm right across from the mouth of the Cornucopia. I can see a large backpack with two hunting knives leaning against it.  
  
Forty-two.  
  
I spot Beech, crouching on his platform about a third of the way around from me. Gilla is a little further away on the other side. Maysilee must be on the far side of the Cornucopia. I see Huller, but not Cotton. Huller is smiling, enjoying the sun on his face. I want to scream at him to wake up.  
  
Thirty-four.  
  
There is a cone-shaped mountain in the distance, and I mentally thank my father for arguing to get me into my fancy classes. I know a volcano when I see one, and I can pretty much guarantee that it's not here for decoration. I decide to get as much distance as I can between me and it, before they use it to wipe out a lot of the field. This will be useful for staying away from the kids from Two as well, since they said they wanted to get to the high ground.  
  
Twenty-three.  
  
I can run for the pack, grab the knives, and head for the woods quickly -- several of the younger kids are over there, and I can break between them. I hope none of them try to stop me. I don't think I could kill some poor little kid, unless he was actually about to kill me.  
  
Seventeen.  
  
Other than me, I can see now that Huller is poised to go. Beech is still crouched, but he's not very fast, and he seems to be distracted by a little hovering bird. The District One girl must be on the far side where I can't see her, but I decide to assume she's ready to go.  
  
Ten.  
  
Nine.  
  
Eight.  
  
I coil myself to run, aiming myself at the bag, but keeping my eyes up to watch for anyone else nearby.  
  
Seven.  
  
Six.  
  
Five.  
  
Four.  
  
I block out the scenery, ignore the butterfly that lights on my ankle, and the sharp stab of pain that follows it.  
  
Three.  
  
Two.  
  
One.  
  
The gong sounds.  
  
I leap from my platform and run for the bag. I've grabbed it and the knives before anyone else even starts moving. I don't take my luck for granted. I break to my right and run for the trees, darting between little Marconi Beckwith from Five and Emmeline Shiff from Eight. I see Gilla and try to yell to her to come with me -- the bag is heavy and should have a lot in it -- but she either doesn't hear me or ignores me. She runs for the Cornucopia. I can't wait for her.  
  
I dive for the shadows just as the first scream rings out. The Cornucopia bloodbath has started.  
  
There will be enough people running for the woods that I know I can't stop, even though the Career kids and their big alliances will be preoccupied with getting equipment and starting the killing. I need to find a safe place, or as safe a place as can be found in a Games arena.  Someplace that the other tributes won't go, at least not right away.  
  
I wish now that I'd spent more time in the woods with Digger. I feel like she'd know where to go. But for now, I stick with my plan, such as it is -- deeper into the woods, further from that mountain. It's big enough that I can see it above the treetops, and I keep it at my back as I run. I don't care if I never find my way back to the Cornucopia, so I don't keep any special track of my path.  
  
I keep going until I can no longer hear any screams, or any footsteps in the woods around me. I lean against a tree and try to catch my breath. If I keep breathing this loudly, I'll bring other tributes. Adrenaline has given my running speed a boost, but it hasn't made my lungs work much better.  I should have worked on this.  I should have learned to run better.  
  
I force my breath into an even rhythm, then look around. I'm safe, or as safe as I can be in an arena. I find a rock and sit on it (sitting cross-legged on the ground would be more convenient, since I'd be able to just drop down where I was, but too hard to get up if someone appears), then put down one of the knives and open my backpack.  
  
I was right to grab it. It's full of dried beef and dried fruit. I'm not very good at plant identification, so I decide to stick with this as long as I can. If I'm careful, I can make it last a week, maybe more.  
  
Aside from the food, there's a heat-holding blanket, some wire, a rope, a first aid kit, and two full water bottles. No wonder it was heavy. I put the back-up knife in my pack, but keep hold of the other one.  
  
I have what I need to survive, and that gives me the luxury to sit down and think out the situation. It also gives me time to notice that my ankle is some fairly serious pain. I look down. There's a swollen area just beneath my ankle bone, where the butterfly landed before the gong sounded.  
  
It _stung_ me.  
  
I'll grant that I haven't seen a lot of butterflies. They come through now and then, but they mostly don't stay inside the fence in District Twelve. But, to the best of my knowledge, they don't sting. This one did, which means they have mutts here that look like safe animals. That means that everything will need to be approached with caution. On the other hand, there should be plenty to do to convince the Gamemakers that I'm playing.  
  
I pull out the first aid kit and find some ointment that looks promising for the sting, which is growing more painful by the moment.  The directions on the side say that it's for infection. I don't use much of it. There are probably more stinging things out there. There's a small explosion of pus, and the swelling starts to go down even before I re-pack the kit.  
  
Now that I'm here and I know what I'm dealing with, I _will_ have to come up with a strategy. I know I'm not going hunting, but I can be reasonably sure some of the others, at least, will hunt me. The ten the Gamemakers gave me makes me a fairly big target.  
  
I have to look like I'm doing something. I can let the audience guess what it is. Hell, they'll probably have _fun_ trying to figure out. Maybe there will be betting pools, if I have anyone following me.  I _hope_ they're following me.  The tributes the audience and the producers aren't interested in tend to have sudden accidents. So my movement away from the mountain has to seem deliberate. I stare off in the direction I'm headed, like I might actually see something there, then get up, put the backpack on, and start walking purposefully again.  
  
I do not let go of my knife. I decide that everything I need to do, I will learn to do with a knife in my hand.  
  
I continue to walk for an hour. I'm sure the cameras aren't following me the whole time, but I make sure not to let my face waver much. If Digger is watching -- and if she's relieved enough by me making it past the Cornucopia to have a sense of humor about this -- she's probably laughing at what she calls my "idea constipation" face, the face I supposedly get when I'm determined to solve a problem. She always tells me I should relax, because I know that sooner or later, something's going to pass out of my brain.  
  
Other people seem to think it's my "Stay out of my way" face. I'm hoping that's how the Capitol audience will see it.  
  
I think about my dream of Digger as Athena, standing on the deck of Odysseus's ship. As long as I don't have anyone to talk to and no one can see my imagination, I amuse myself by imagining her as the goddess of wisdom. I absently twist my bracelet, and ask her where I ought to head.  
  
_"Seems to me you know where you're headed," she says. "Your problem is that you don't know where you'll fetch up."_  
  
_Ithaca,_ I think to her. _Home._  
  
_"To Penelope?" she smiles. "Then it seems to me you need to find your way out of this arena."_  
  
They'll only let me out if everyone dies.  
  
_"And here I thought I was talking to Haymitch Abernathy. Since when do you wait for people to_ let _you do anything?"_  
  
The idea starts to come, but I don't let my expression change. This isn't an idea I want _anyone_ guessing at.  
  
If I can make it to the end of the arena...  
  
I don't really know what I'll do.  
  
For one thing, it's got to be guarded somehow. For another, if I really did what Digger joked about doing -- if I really broke out of the arena and made a run for it -- not only would they catch me, but they'd take it out on Mom and Lacklen and probably Digger herself, long before any of them could find a way to get out of District Twelve. And if they did get out, Snow would probably punish the whole district out of spite.  
  
I'm not really all that attached to District Twelve, but I don't want to think about Peacekeepers cracking down on the whole town because of me.  
  
And that's how the Games work, I realize. It's not really the threat of what they'll do to me. I have a pretty high likelihood of dying one way or the other. So does everyone else. What keeps us all playing the game is the threat of what will happen to the people at home if we _don't_ play.  
  
Still, finding the edge of the arena is something to aim for. During the interviews, I thought about a power source. Maybe there's something around the boundaries that generates energy. I have a wire. Maybe there's something useful.  
  
A cannon booms. It's as loud here as it would be on television, so I guess it's really just a sound the Gamemakers project from whatever little gadgets they have around, rather than an actual cannon going off somewhere.  
  
I stop for the first time. The fighting at the Cornucopia is over. They're counting the dead and taking them up to the hovercrafts that invisibly patrol the skies above the arena. I wonder if that's why they bring the tributes in separate hovercrafts. Maybe they just circle around the arena, waiting for their tributes to die, so they can scoop up the bodies and take them back in the same vehicle that brought them. This year, we went two to a hovercraft. I wonder if that means the victor will have to fly back to the Capitol with the body of a district partner.  
  
I count eighteen booms.  
  
Eighteen tributes dead. In a normal year, that would take the field down to six, but now it's down to thirty.  
  
The image of the forty-eight of us in a semi-circle on Caesar's stage comes to me. I wonder who's missing. I try not to think of Gilla, rushing in toward the Cornucopia.  
  
I should have grabbed her and dragged her away. If I do win, what will they think at home? What would Mom say?  
  
I know what she'd say.  She said it. She said, _Live, Haymitch._  
  
I force myself not to look worried. Not to look concerned, even. Eighteen down. Twenty-nine to go.  
  
I start moving again. Another butterfly stings me. This time, it hurts more, and I have to stop and dig the stinger out. While I'm crouched, trying to fumble my way to the first aid kit again -- the sting is on my wrist and it's done something to the nerves in my hand; I'm forced to use my teeth to open the backpack -- I hear the sound of running water to my left.  
  
I will eventually need to find water, I figure. My two bottles won't last forever. Water sources will be dangerous to stay near, but it would be good to know where they are. If the water is moving, it's a stream or river, and I can follow its course on a hidden parallel, at least if it's going my way. It will probably be coming down from the mountain, so I could follow it downstream to wherever it drains. Maybe it even drains at the arena's edge.  
  
Of course, wherever it drains, it will be leaving the arena. The whole area beneath me has to be catacombed with Gamemakers' caves. They have the launch rooms we came up from, and they have to let the big mutts out from somewhere, and control the weather and the water supply, and there's probably a lot of machinery under the volcano, waiting for the right time to start up. One tool they _never_ have at the Cornucopia is a shovel. Not that the caves would be possible to dig into, I remind myself. They're probably surrounded with steel or something. But they like to preserve the idea that we're all alone out here. That's why the hovercrafts are invisible, too.  
  
Still, I imagine the world under my feet. The Gamemakers themselves are back at the Capitol, but maybe there are maintenance people there, or mutt-keepers. Dangerous animals in cages prowling around a hundred yards beneath my feet. Big computers and booming machinery, muffled by the soundproofing and the thick earthen cover. Maybe some low level tech is having a coffee break in a windowless cafeteria while children are dying above his head.  
  
I finally dig out the sting medicine and manage to smear some on my wrist. The swelling breaks open painfully, spewing out blood with the pus this time. I will have to watch out for the butterflies. The venom apparently multiplies with each sting.  
  
I wait for the pain to recede, put the first aid kit away, and start moving again, this time toward the sound of the water. I come through a break in the trees and spot a clean, shiny stream that's rushing down from the mountain in the distance. Perfect.  
  
I am cautious leaving the cover of my trees. Other tributes might well be in this part of the woods, if they kept running after the Cornucopia. I don't hear anyone moving.  
  
I make my way down the slope, careful not to slip. There are plenty of plants with thorns, and, given the stinging butterflies, I don't want to find out what will happen if I scratch myself.  
  
I'm about halfway down when the nineteenth and twentieth cannons go off. I don't think too much of it this time. It's probably something still going on from the Cornucopia fights. But about twenty yards downstream, I see the leaves of a bush jitter as someone hiding there is startled by the sound.  
  
I fall back into the shadows.  
  
Whoever is there is smart enough to wait for a long time, but eventually, I see a brown hand emerge, pushing aside the leaves. A second later, a small form races for the stream, looking over his shoulder as he goes.  
  
It's Sigh Tomby, the boy from Three who talked up his mentor at the interviews. It occurs to me that, if I do find a power supply, he might actually be a good ally to have.  
  
If he doesn't use it to kill me, of course.  
  
I bite my lip and consider it as he kneels beside the stream to drink. Allies are both helpful and costly. I could share my food. He could share his knowledge about power. He could slow me down. I could get to like him and end up entangled in fighting I don't want to see. He could --  
  
He throws himself backward suddenly, tearing at his throat, making a terrible sound somewhere between a gag and a scream. Something flies out of his hand and into the stream.  
  
I look around quickly for any other tributes who might be headed for the sound.  I don't move. It would be crazy for me to go out there. I don't even know Sigh Tomby.  Every year in the Games, someone gets killed rushing out to check on some other tribute.  But watching him gagging and grasping at his throat, I don't know if I can stay away.  
  
He coughs wretchedly and blood spatters out onto his hands.  
  
This decides me. I have seen too much blood coughed up over the last year to stand here and watch. I tighten my grip on my knife and go to him. We're certainly on television now. Claudius Templesmith is most likely speculating that I'm about to "finish him."  Claudius lives for the moments when tributes "finish" each other.  He practically salivates when he talks about it on television.  He probably has videos of them permanently programmed in his bathroom.  
  
I have no intention of finishing anyone. And I won't need to. As I get close, I can see that Sigh's mouth isn't just bloody. It's burned and blistering, and his throat is swollen. His lips are sizzling and misshapen.  
  
He looks up at me, his eyes wide enough to show the whole iris. "Water…" he chokes.  
  
"You need water?"  
  
"No. Water. Not…Don't… "  
  
"I have clean water," I say, and open my backpack. I can't give him much of my water, but maybe --  
  
His eyes close.  
  
The cannon booms.  
  
I stand there for a long time, staring at him. I didn't see any of the deaths at the Cornucopia, or the two afterward. But this… this is like the girl from Six who died at our train depot. It's close. I can feel the heat coming off of the body. The hovercraft will come soon. I look at the stream. In it, I can see what flew from his hand -- a metal water bottle. A hole has already been eaten in the side, and I can hear the stream working on the rest of it.  
  
Whatever is flowing in that streambed, it isn't water.  
  
And if the streams are coming from the same liquid source that goes into the plants, then the plants can't be natural, either.  
  
Nothing is safe here.  
  
I pull out my water bottle and put a drop of water on Sigh's lips. I'm not sure why, though I tell myself it's to test it on my finger before I try drinking it.  
  
"I'm sorry," I tell him.  
  
I back away, until I'm a good distance from the stream, then I turn and run. Somewhere behind me, the claw lowers to take Sigh Tomby home.  
  
I wait until the forest is quiet again, then I start looking for a place to shelter for the night. The afternoon sun is getting very low, and soon it will set.  
  
Despite the fact that I know all of Panem is watching me, and there are twenty-six other tributes in the arena, and uncountable Capitol technicians and pilots above and below, I feel acutely alone. I can't even conjure anyone in my imagination. I'm not even sure who I _want_ to conjure. All I can imagine any of the people I care about doing is looking at me like I'm filthy for standing there watching for so long while a fourteen year old boy died in front of me.  
  
I have to stop this. I know none of them are really saying that. I watch the Games with them every year. They don't even say it about strangers.  
  
I find deep section of the woods, and a bush with greenwood branches. Careful not to cut myself on any part of it, I bend the greenwood out into a series of arches, thread it through with more branches, and slip inside. By the time I'm done, the sun has set, and the nighttime cold is settling in. I pull out the thermal blanket and wrap it around my shoulders, and try not to think about anything but the fact that I have survived the first day. There's no guarantee about the night, and I don't think I'll be able to sleep.  
  
About half an hour after I settle down -- at least what I guess is half an hour; there's no watch in my backpack -- I hear the strains of the national anthem. They'll be showing the dead.  
  
I crawl out of my shelter and look up. It will be a long display.  
  
It starts with a District One boy. Usually, all of the Career tributes make it through the Cornucopia, so I'm guessing it was the water or the food. Either way, Jasper Fields is the first listed.  
  
I have to wait through the whole field. Sigh, of course, comes up next. Then another Career, Bridie McMann from District Four. Two from District Five, and all of the District Six tributes. I think about the District Six kids riding the rails, and I'm willing to bet that all four of them were put next to vicious tributes who didn't give them a chance. Districts Seven, Eight, Nine and Ten lose two each. Wakerobin Moore from District Eleven, and -- my first real stab of loss -- Cotton Lawrence.  
  
The anthem isn't over. District Twelve has lost someone today.  
  
Gilla's face floats in the sky, smiling the sweet smile Gia coached her on for so long. I close my eyes, but not long enough to miss the picture of Beech that comes next.  
  
I think about her buried in fancy clothes, talking about Digger painting her lips with berry juice. I think about him shamefacedly asking how to work the shower, and not remembering fifteen minutes later which buttons he pushed. I don't know how they died. We're not shown that in the arena, though it will have played at home.  
  
The anthem ends. Maysilee is still out here somewhere.  
  
I go back into my shelter. I don't sleep for a long time, and when I do, it's thin and haunted by strange, senseless dreams. Beech comes to me and asks if I know how he's supposed to look in a coffin, because he's not sure.  He can't remember what his preps told him. Gilla cries around a piece of crumbling toast, and Digger comforts her, looking at me reproachfully.  I try to tell her that I didn't have a choice, but even I don't believe it.  
  
I'm brought completely out of sleep before dawn, when the first cannon of the second day goes off.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch is surviving the arena, but the pressure of being on his own starts to get to him, at least until the Gamemakers unleash their biggest catastrophe.

I leave my shelter carefully. It's decently hidden, but not perfect, and it's more than possible that someone could be lying in wait. Personally, if I had it in mind to kill someone in a woven shelter, I'd block the way out and burn it, but that could just be me.  
  
I check around the shelter. There are no broken twigs, footsteps, or disturbed dew. I seem to be alone.  
  
It only takes a few minutes to unweave the shelter. No reason to leave a trail of breadcrumbs. I let the greenwood spring back into place, and scatter the other branches randomly.  
  
I won't know who the cannon fired for until night, and I can't think about it. It won't do any good. Depending on how quickly people figured out about the food and water yesterday, it could be another bad day. Or we could all be far enough apart that it will be safe. It could go either way.  
  
I take a few swallows from my water bottle. I don't know where, or if, I can refill it, so I'm going to be stingy. The food, I _know_ I'll need to be stingy with. There's nothing to eat, and I'm not counting on Drake to send me any parachutes, no matter what Gia said. I restrict myself to one strip of dried beef for breakfast. I've had worse days, though I'm starting to think that spending the last week stretching my stomach may not have been the best idea I ever had.  
  
This early on the second day, only the real die-hard fans are watching the live show. Mandatory viewing tonight will only show highlights. I'll have to come up with something to make the reels, but for now, I don't have to be in a rush.  
  
Something skitters above me and I look up. There's a small golden squirrel in the trees, looking at me with wide eyes. Squirrel is decent meat, and Digger says that most meat is good as long as it's not diseased, at least if you cook it completely. I decide not to try it. I don't want to light a cook fire, and besides, if the Gamemakers made water that can kill a person in seconds, I don't put it past them to make the animals diseased, too. Maybe you eat the squirrels and then go crazy or something.  
  
I briefly consider trying to tame one of them. A boy three years ago who was working alone got some camera time when he made a pet of a wild dog in the arena. It even defended him from one of the other tributes. Of course, it was a Capitol mutt, and it turned on him in the end, but he did get a lot of face time. The audience thought it was cute.  
  
I doubt I can sell "cute" to the audience. I decide to leave the squirrel alone to go about its squirrely little errands.  
  
I eat my breakfast as slowly as I can, trying to trick my stomach into thinking there's more of it (Mom taught this trick to Lacklen and me years ago, and it almost works, sometimes). I want to move toward the edge of the arena again today -- away from the mountain. Deeper into the woods. Same as yesterday. I might actually follow the poison stream. It has to go somewhere. That's not going to get me camera time. Maybe I should hunt for some mutt lair. The big ones have lairs that probably go down into the work area, where they can be released at the best moment.  
  
I shake my head. I have to stop thinking about the work area, or things beyond the arena. Getting out would be great -- for about ten seconds, before the retaliation would come.  
  
I do wonder how the mutt releases work, though. Who keeps them? What do they do when they're not needed up here? How do the Gamemakers control them and make them retreat when it's time?  
  
It would be totally useless information in my current situation -- I'm sure it's nothing a tribute could use -- but if I ever make it out of the arena, I want to find out. I guess it would be totally useless outside the arena, too, but that's never stopped me before.  
  
I start walking after I decide I can't stretch breakfast any further. I walk all morning without seeing any other tributes, or any mutts. Unbelievably, I am starting to get bored. I'll have to add that to the list of things I never suspected about the Games: When they're not actually deadly, they're deadly boring. It will go right next to finding out that the person who called my name at the reaping is the nicest person in the Capitol, and the green-haired guy in the lit-up suit is the smartest.  
  
Lacking anything else to do, I decide to annoy Drake. "Hey!" I call to the sky. "Can you send me a book or something?"  
  
I don't expect a parachute, and I don't get one. What I do get is another of those little golden squirrels. It comes out from under a bush.  
  
"Hi," I say to it.  
  
It sits up on its haunches and chitters loudly.  
  
I tense. The branches of the bush start to shiver, and I hear rustling from another bush behind me. I turn around so that the bushes are at my sides, and I can see them.  
  
The world explodes in golden fur.  
  
Squirrels leap out the bushes. I count ten at a glance, then I have to stop counting, because they're on me. One bites my ear, tearing off a piece of the earlobe. Another is trying to gnaw through my pant leg, and a third has dug its teeth into my side.  
  
I grab the one at my ear and fling it away, ripping another piece of flesh with it. I throw off the one at my side, and stab down at the one on my leg. The knife is sharp, and splits it open easily. The carcass falls to the ground.  
  
There is no thinking after that. The mutts leap at me, I slash at them. As far as I have a plan, it's to not let them near any major arteries. I take a lot of bites, and I can only hope the squirrels aren't actually diseased. There are at least two bites on my face, which will scar if I live, I guess, but I can't worry about that at the moment.  
  
It occurs to me that this attack is probably being played for comedy -- the smart aleck boy being taken down by a pack of cute looking squirrels. I am not going to be a punchline. I'm not going to let them hurt Mom and Lacklen and Digger by making my death into a running joke through the Games.  
  
I lose track of time during the attack. Everything in the world is the pack of squirrels biting at me. I slash them, cutting them in half, flinging them away.  
  
Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.  
  
The forest is silent. I am standing in the middle of a rough circle of carnage. I count thirty-two squirrels, but a few more are mangled, and I'm not sure if they're more squirrels, or just pieces of the first ones I counted.  
  
I'm bleeding freely in at least two dozen places, but none of them seems very serious. I'm alive. They didn't make me a joke.  
  
I go to the bush, the one the first squirrel came from, and I hack at its branches with my knife, cutting it away at the base. Under it, I see a hole lined in concrete, leading down into the darkness -- a path for the squirrels to come up. A mutt-way. I cram as many branches as I can into it. Let them try and send more through those tunnels. I do the same to the other bush.  
  
I doubt I've made a dent in their system, but I feel better.  
  
I go to a rock, sit down, and dig out my first aid kit. I use some of my precious water -- almost half a bottle -- to clean the wounds. I can't wait on that. If I start thinking I can, all I have to do is think of the District Six girl, and the infected wounds from her whipping. Ruth was far too late for cleaning to do any good. Dying of an infection from rodent bites wouldn't be any less embarrassing than being eaten by squirrels. I put a little of the ointment on them as well. There's no explosion of pus, but I hope it will help them heal.  
  
There aren't enough bandages for all of the bites, so I prioritize the ones that bled the most. I'll have to keep checking them. The earlobe looks the worst. One of the squirrels managed to get a little snack, and I guess I'm stuck with that. Bandaging it isn't easy, either. There's barely anything to stick the bandage to.  
  
I guess I better avoid the squirrels in the future. I should probably also avoid telling the Gamemakers that I'm bored.  
  
I spend most of the afternoon resting, re-gathering my strength. My muscles are stiff around a lot of the bites, but there's nothing for it. I'll just have to work through it.   
  
I eat my supper there on the rock (I allow myself two strips of dried beef), looking out over the forest. I can still see the mountain the distance, poking its head up over the tree line. I try to remember how volcanoes work. It should bulge before it goes off. There should be a little bit of work-up -- tremors, maybe some gas releases. Then again, it's not a real volcano. It's a Gamemakers' volcano, which means it will probably go on and off with a switch somewhere, at whatever time they think is opportune. What that time will be, I have no way of knowing. I don't know where anyone else is, or what they're doing. I haven't seen anyone since Sigh Tomby died.  
  
After a while, I decide to climb a tree and see if there's anything visible. I want to know where everyone else is -- partly because it's safer to know where people who want me dead might be hiding, and partly, I admit to myself, because I'm tired of being alone. I don't want an ally that I'll only have to kill, but the strangeness of going more than a day without seeing a single human face is starting to get to me. I hate most people, but I guess I'm used to having them around to hate.  
  
Climbing is difficult, because all the little bites sting like fire when the muscles move around them, but it's no good to let them slow me down. I climb as far as I dare, before the trunk gets too thin to hold me without swaying enough to let anyone in the vicinity know that I'm here. The tree is on a slight rise, so my vantage point is actually pretty good.  
  
From here, I can see that the forest curves around the meadow like an arm, with the volcano a raised fist at one end. Something is glinting in the sun, and I realize with a start that it's the Cornucopia -- I've traveled quite a long way since yesterday. It looks like a tiny piece of scrap metal twinkling on the ground.  
  
There's some motion in the trees about halfway between me and the mountain, but I don't see any other signs of life. If I didn't know there were twenty-seven tributes still here -- no, twenty-six, I remind myself, thinking of the cannon that woke me up this morning -- I'd believe I was completely alone in the world.  
  
I remember a novel I read once. It took place after the Catastrophes, but before the in-Gathering, and it was about a man who was the only survivor of a plague on an island. At first, there was plenty for him to do, taking care of the remains of his people -- he built a huge pyre, and even made a monument to them. He had to come up with ways to survive on his own, with all of the conveniences gone. So for a little while, he kept himself sane. Then things started to crack. He'd been wandering from house to house, sleeping in a different bed every night (that was the title of the story, I remember -- "A Bed For The Night") and he started to hallucinate his neighbors. At first it was just an elaborate game of pretend because he was lonely, but he started to believe it. They started to appear to him, and he fixed their houses, and had conversations with them. They had their own trials and tribulations, and somehow, it was always the narrator who they came to with their problems. He got married and had a family. He became a local hero, and eventually became the mayor. Only there was a telephone in his office that was always ringing, and he kept avoiding picking it up. It turned out that it was a symbol in his mind for the repeated attempts being made from the in-Gathering team from Panem (well, it wasn't Panem then) to reach survivors. Finally, the point of view switched to one of the rescuers, who found the man in the abandoned town hall in the empty city. He was amenable to going, but of course insisted that, as mayor, he should see to it that the thousands of people he was responsible for got out first. Especially his wife and children.  
  
I shudder. When I read the story, it seemed crazy. Danny said it made sense to him, but I figured that was just Danny. He was a social person, and I wasn't. He got bored and restless any time he didn't have company. That was why he hated doing assignments alone. I wasn't like that.  
  
In the end, though, I guess we're all like that. It's what Mom said about living in the out-districts. It's probably why the in-Gathering worked as well as it did. After a while, people must have needed to find each other more than they needed anything else -- their countries, their names, their freedom. It keeps people in the districts, and it keeps the districts connected to the Capitol, even more than the danger of being bombed or occupied. Communications among the districts are all routed through the Capitol. Losing touch with the Capitol would mean losing touch with everyone.  
  
I think about the girl from Six, and the four tributes from there all slaughtered on the first day. They tried to find a way around the communications problem. They paid for it.  
  
I want to hate the Capitol, but I can't quite do it anymore, not after meeting quite a few perfectly decent people who live there. There may be Peacekeepers and politicians, but there's also Caesar Flickerman and Gia Pepper, and my preps (dumb as grass, but decent). There's the boy who wanted send Lacklen a pair of glasses, and the old women weeping over Gilla.  
  
I decide to hate President Snow and the Gamemakers for now, and figure out who else I specifically need to hate later, if I get out of here.  
  
The sun is getting low in the sky, and I decide to look for a good place to shelter. I start heading off in my usual direction. I've been walking for about ten minutes when it starts to rain.  
  
I jump back when I feel the first drop, expecting it to be acid from the stream. It's not. It's just cool, clean water. The storm picks up, and it starts pouring down, a cold, refreshing shower. I dig for my half-empty bottle, open it, and let the rain refill it. Then I stand there, my head tipped back, letting it wash the day's grime off of me. A few of my bandages fall off, but I don't care. If they start bleeding again, I'll tear off part of my shirt and use it to re-bandage.  
  
I don't know why they've decided to give us a gift like this. Maybe the audience doesn't think it's very interesting to watch people die of dehydration. I'm sure the other tributes weren't as lucky with supplies as I was, and more than a day without water would make them confused and lethargic. I amuse myself by imagining the Gamemakers being yelled at for making a boring arena where everyone dies before there's any real conflict. I don't really care _why_ it's raining. It is. They're not going to make us die of thirst, and I can keep my bottles full, and keep my wounds clean.  
  
After the storm, I find a little cave and settle in for the night. I come out to check the sky for the day's losses. There was only the one cannon, and there's only one death today, the remaining District Eight girl, Poplin Denker. I think she's the one who was wearing the floaty red gown at the interviews. I remember thinking that Digger would have liked her dress.  
  
I don't sleep very deeply. The ointment I put on the squirrel bites is healing them quickly, and they itch like crazy. Besides, I can't be sure that there's nothing in this cave hiding mutt-ways. The Gamemakers don't usually attack tributes in the middle of the night (the audience is asleep, too), but since I jammed up the mutt-ways back at the bushes, they could decide that I don't even deserve a televised death.  
  
In the morning, I wake up to another rainstorm. I use this one as a shower, stripping down to my underwear (there _are_ still cameras around) to clean off the rest of my body. The bites have healed a lot overnight, and I actually feel pretty good, though I nick myself with the knife a couple of times while I try to maneuver around it. I touch my face, thinking I'll probably need a shave and wondering if I can do it with the knife, but my skin is smooth. I realize that the preps never shaved me, either. I guess that shot they gave me has suppressed hair growth, too.  
  
I wonder if they gave the girls anything to suppress girl issues. I don't think I ever saw a girl trying to deal with what Digger calls "the monthlies" on television. If they did give them something, I'd guess that, given Digger's constant grumbling on the subject, every girl in Panem would be begging for it.  
  
Not that they'd get it. Keyton's Apothecary has trouble getting headache medicine in, let alone anything more complicated. That's why Ruth spends half her life mucking around with forest plants.  
  
I put my clothes back on -- they're damp, but I don't care -- and straighten my hair out as well as I can. Hopefully, there will be something less embarrassing than mutt squirrels to get camera time on today.  
  
I continue my walk. I'm beginning to wonder if the forest will ever end. It didn't look this big when I climbed the tree. I have to be walking in circles somehow, even though I always keep the mountain at my back. A cannon goes off just after noon, but it's the only one I hear all day. The audience must be getting restless by now.  
  
It's late afternoon when I stumble into a tall, tightly-woven hedge. I try to pull apart the branches, but it's no use. The hedge is thick and prickly, and, given everything else in the arena, most likely poisonous if I cut myself on it. I step back, frustrated. Not only is the hedge crossing my path here, it seems to go on for a long way in both directions. If I go to the right, it will lead me back to the meadow. Left will take me toward the stream. I'm not sure what's on the other side of the stream, but there has to be something.  
  
I turn left.  
  
It takes me about ten minutes to reach the stream, which dives under the hedge. I can hear it rushing on the other side, and I guess there's a waterfall.  
  
I have to go upstream a little bit to find stones to cross on, but I do find them. I cross into a new part of the forest, and turn back downstream. I end up back at the hedge, and keep following it until sunset. I see no one all day, and, though I spot what I think is a mutt raccoon of some kind, it leaves me alone. I think the Gamemakers are trying to see if it's possible to literally bore me to death.   
  
Of course, they came close with the squirrels, when I got bored enough to demand a challenge. I do not express my boredom out loud this time. They'd probably send venomous bunny rabbits who'd make me go crazy and tap dance myself to death.  
  
I settle down in the shadow of the hedge when night falls. The day's only casualty was one of the boys from Ten, Wyland Belcher. His is the only face I have seen since last night's broadcast. I wonder what he was like. I try to remember him from training, but all of that seems to be a very long time ago. Was he the one who rode a horse alongside a herd of cows that was being moved from place to place? Or did he talk about staying up all night with the sheep? I can't remember.  
  
I manage another thin sort of sleep. I dream that the Gamemakers are wandering around the arena, and President Snow is scolding them for not having enough deaths for two days straight. Drake says they should kill me next, maybe with warrior leprechauns. The boy who was waiting tables at my evaluation stares at everything, gape-mouthed. He takes home a pet squirrel.  
  
I wake up the next morning to what I think at first is another cannon. It's a deep, rumbling, booming sound, and when I open my eyes, the sky is red with what I at first take for dawn.  
  
It's not the cannon, and it's not dawn.  
  
The Gamemakers have set off their biggest toy. The volcano, now several miles distant, is spewing liquid fire into the air. Ash billows up, and lightning flashes through it. I can hear something sizzling, and I see that, over the mountain, there's a strange hole in the sky, edged with fire. Much of the ash is escaping through it, though around it, a ring of ash falls like black snow. I have made it a good distance, but even here, there is some ash fall. I wet my shirt and put it over my face, the way the miners do to keep from breathing in the coal dust if their equipment breaks down (which happens pretty regularly)… not that this helps after several years, but maybe it will help until the Gamemakers tire of this challenge.  
  
I climb the tallest tree I can find. I'm lower on this side of the stream than I was before, and I can't see everything. The rise I was on at first on the far side blocks some of my view. But I can see lava trailing down the sides of the mountain, and the edges of the woods starting to catch fire. There is a lot of motion in the treetops now. People are running through the woods.  
  
The volcano isn't just there to kill people.  
  
It's there to force us into each other's orbit.  
  
I'm far enough out that I don't run into trouble with other tributes all day, and their plight is probably much more interesting than mine, since the Gamemakers don't bother to send any mutts. I take my shirt off after a while and tie it around my nose and mouth, keeping it wet with water from my bottle. I know they won't let the forest burn entirely, so I figure I'm safe from the fire this far out. Sure enough, the rain comes a little bit after noon, dousing the forest fire. The volcano is still spewing out lava, but when I climb another tree, I see that the Gamemakers have trapped it somehow, and are guiding it out toward the meadow. It seems to be forming a thick disk at the base of the mountain.  
  
They have effectively shut down the arena outside the forest.  
  
Everyone left is here.  
  
It's not until after the rainstorm that the cannons start to go off. I guess it took them that long to sort out the dead. It booms twelve times, almost cutting the remaining field in half.  
  
When night comes, I watch the faces in the sky through veils of floating ash. Four of the five remaining Career girls are dead -- everyone but Filigree, who probably just scared the lava into retreating from her. They also lost one boy, Sabinus Malton. I wonder if the girls and boys were traveling in separate packs. I guess I have no way to know that. Either way, their pack is down to five. The other seven are spread out among the districts, though the remaining two from District Eleven -- Huller Green and Sage Sanders -- are both killed. I think of Huller offering to be my ally, because Chaff said I was the one to beat.  
  
He is dead now, because the audience was bored.  
  
Boredom is a more powerful emotion than people generally give it credit for.  
  
I realize that, with the rest of the tributes in the forest, I'm more or less trapped if I stay this close to the hedge. I sleep one more night in its shadow, and in the morning, after another rainstorm, I head out into the woods.  
  
The plan -- such as it is -- is to find another tall tree on the rise and see if I can find the end of the hedge, or any way through it. The only thing I can think of is to actually burn it. I don't know what I'll find on the far side.  
  
I have been walking for less than an hour when I see the first human beings to cross my path since Sigh Tomby.  
  
There are three of them, all Careers, all bigger than I am. It's the two arrogant boys from Four -- Kavan Carroll and Donnell Moran -- and the last tribute from Two, Crispus Bidwell.  
  
They are all dirty and their clothes are badly singed, but they seem to be healthy and in good shape.  
  
Bidwell grins, and I realize that they mean to kill me, right now. Drake would love that -- me getting killed by someone from his district.  
  
I tighten my grip on my knife.   
  
The world descends to flashpoints. Carroll is leaning in. He will come first. Bidwell is trying to get around behind me -- I can see the slight shift in his weight. Moran is relaxed. I'm easy prey.  
  
He's the weak point.  
  
I rush him.  
  
I don't think he's even realized that I've taken the initiative when the knife rips through his carotid artery, dousing me with his blood. He falls to the ground and somewhere in another world, a cannon goes off. I've killed someone. I don't have time to think about it.  
  
Bidwell runs in. I feel his hand on my arm and I swing wildly to that side. I connect with the blade of his knife somehow -- I don't think I could do it again if I tried -- and knock it aside. He doesn't lose his grip on it. There's a sharp pain in my shoulder, and I realize that he's actually bitten me.  
  
I elbow him in the face and bring my knife around in a sharp arc. He manages to duck most of it, but a line of blood blooms across his abdomen.  
  
I see Carroll trying to sneak around behind me, and I turn the fight so Bidwell's in his way.   
  
Bidwell stumbles on something. I don't waste time. I bury my knife in his neck.  
  
This is my first mistake, and I know immediately that it's also my last. The knife doesn't want to come free.  
  
Carroll jumps me from the side, knocking me over, pulling my hand away from my knife. He is a lot bigger than I am, and a lot stronger. He pins me down and kneels on my chest. I see his blade glinting in the sunlight. I can almost hear Lacklen in my head, asking how I'm going to get out of this. I remember my flip answer -- that if they trap me this well, I guess I'm not getting out of it.  
  
I try uselessly to grab at his wrist, but he flings my hand away like it costs him no effort at all.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asks. "Did you just turn a hundred percent stupid?"  
  
I struggle to get free.  
  
Carroll raises his blade again, and I know that I don't have a chance.  
  
Then the knife falls from his hand, and he drops forward over me, convulsing wildly.  
  
I push him off of me. A sharp needle is sticking out of the back of his neck.  
  
I look up.  
  
Maysilee Donner steps out of the shadows. "We'd live longer with the two of us," she says.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maysilee Donner becomes Haymitch's ally.

I stare at her for what feels like a long time, but probably isn't. If I team up with Maysilee now, so close to the end, there's a real possibility of them forcing us to fight. Of course, if she hadn't shown up, I wouldn't be getting any closer to the end. And the little backpack she's carrying is looking pretty empty to my eyes, while I have plenty left.  
  
She's right. Whatever may happen in the end, we'll last longer together. And if it does come down to the two of us, I'll send her home. I doubt I could look anyone I know in the eye if I didn't.  
  
I sit up, rubbing my neck. Something in it got stretched pretty painfully in the fight. "Guess you just proved that," I say, and hold out my hand. "Allies?"  
  
She nods, then reaches down and helps me up.  
  
"Do you have plan?" I ask her.  
  
"I _did_ ," she says. "I've mostly been staying at the edge of the woods. I figured I could sneak up to the Cornucopia for food when I run out. I stayed out of the way of the pack on the mountain."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"The Cornucopia's buried. I think we can be pretty sure they're not sending any more food."  
  
"I've got a lot," I say, and look at the backpacks the Career boys dropped. "Looks like they're still pretty flush, too. If we get everything into two packs, do you think you could carry one of the big ones?"  
  
"Yeah." She gets down and starts working the backpack off of Kavan Carroll. "This is ghoulish."  
  
"Is this your first… kill?"  
  
Her eyes flash up, then down again, full of shame. "No."  
  
"Sorry," I say. "I… Moran was my first."  
  
"I had to fight at the Cornucopia," she says. "I tangled with Declan Denny. He had a knife. I… I had to turn it around or he'd have killed me."  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah. I had another since then, too. Wyland Belcher. He tried to sneak up on me in a cave.  Shot him." She holds up the blowgun.  "How about you? Are you all right?"  
  
I shrug. "It's what people do. It's what all animals do. You get attacked, you fight back."  
  
So we start cleaning out the supplies from the Career boys. They have a lot of food, enough for both of us for at least another week. They also have plenty of weapons, and I take a new knife, since I don't want to retrieve the one from Bidwell's neck. I still have my spare in my bag as well. One of the boys actually has a blowtorch, which has to be about the most useful thing I've seen anyone sent in the arena. I could probably use one at home. I bet he was probably wasting it as a weapon. Maysilee checks to see if any of them are carrying darts. They aren't. She found the blowgun in her backpack, and she's been storing the darts packed in poison berries.  
  
"I saw Poppy Denker die when she ate them," she explains. "I tried to stop her. We talked a few times during training. She must have known they were poison. Why else would she wait all night to eat them? But she wasn't right after the Cornucopia. She was just muttering and crying a lot. The berries killed her really quickly." She bites her lip. "That's when I decided to pack my darts in them. That's the only way they would really do any good. Then Wyland came into the cave the next day. I dropped back into the shadows so he couldn't see me and…" She closes her eyes, then opens them again slowly. "Do _you_ have a plan?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"A plan. Mine kind of blew up with the mountain. I'm game to go along with yours."  
  
"I've mostly been heading that way." I point in the direction I came from.  
  
"Why?"  
  
It's because I want to find the edge of the arena, but I don't think that's wise to say where the Gamemakers can hear. I say, "Why not? But I haven't found much. So, let's head…" I close my eyes and point in a slightly different direction. "That way."  
  
"Well, as long as your reasoning is solid. We should get out of here before the hovercrafts come, anyway."  
  
We quickly finish repacking the supplies, and head back into the woods along the new path. Being trapped along the hedge is still a bad idea, but I figure we can set off deeper into the woods in a different direction, now that the volcano has done its thing. I can see if there's anything after the end of the hedge.  
  
We haven't been walking for long when we hear the hovercrafts behind us. I think of the boys being loaded onto them, and of their families back in District Four and District Two. No doubt, they'd have cheered if I'd died and the Careers had made off with my supply pack, but I can't help thinking that it really must have looked ghoulish to them as it was. It always looks ghoulish to me.  
  
But it's the way the Hunger Games are played.  
  
A little after noon, we decide that we're alone in this part of the woods. We haven't seen or heard anyone since the attack, and it seems safe to sit down and have lunch. With our newfound wealth, it's quite a feast -- three strips of dried beef each, plus a handful of raisins.  
  
"I had one of these before," I say, holding it up. "Danny let me have one."  
  
"Kaydi and I saved up our allowance for two months and bought a piece of carrot cake from him once. Just walked right in and had him cut us one."  
  
"Was it good?"  
  
"Worth every bit of the price." She stretches out on the ground and thoughtfully chews on a few raisins. "I wonder if the Mellarks would cut sponsors a deal to send us some carrot cake. You should have some. And I bet Daddy would give them a break on sarsaparilla candies, too."  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure that'll be Drake's highest priority."  
  
"Well, I figured it couldn't hurt to ask." She sighs and rolls over onto her back, her hands locked behind her neck, looking up at the sky. "If you get back, you have to try those things. You promise me that."  
  
"Sure. And if you get back… you get some for my family and Digger, okay?"  
  
"Iron-clad promise," she says.  
  
I try to think of something in my life that makes me happy that I can have Maysilee do if she gets home, to remember me by, but the only things I can think of that she doesn't already do involve Digger, and I think Maysilee might take it wrong if I suggested them. Digger, too, probably.  
  
We don't talk for a little while. We've both gone days without much talking, and it doesn’t seem strange. It just feels good to have someone else around. I think about lying down on the grass beside her, but I think one of us should be able to get up quickly. Maybe I'll take a turn lying down later.  
  
Instead, I lean against a tree. "Do you know what happened to Beech and Gilla?" I ask.  
  
She sighs, and I'm sorry I've brought her back to the arena from the land of carrot cake and sarsaparilla candies. "Cornucopia."  
  
"Did you see?"  
  
"Yeah. I saw."  
  
I don't push her to tell me, but after a few minutes, she does. She starts speaking in a low, soft tone, almost expressionless.  
  
She was on the far side of the Cornucopia from me, as I suspected. There were a few backpacks scattered around, but none very big. She could barely see Beech, but she had a pretty good view of Gilla. Her plan was to grab the younger girl -- by force if necessary -- and drag her away.  
  
"It didn't work out," she says. "I made a grab for my bag, and that's when Declan attacked me. He'd found the knife in the grass or something. By the time it was over… it was over."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"I don't know who it was. But someone… someone with something big and sharp…" She shakes her head. "Haymitch, it's good you didn't see it. You don't need it in your head."  
  
I have a feeling that it's going to be in my head one way or another for however long I have left, but obviously, Maysilee doesn't want to think about it. I don't push. "And Beech?"  
  
"That, I saw. He thought they were his allies. He fought his way up to the Cornucopia, then Filigree laughed at him. I was just coming around, trying to see if there was anything else I could get. Filigree laughed at him and slit his throat while he just stood there, looking confused." She sits up. "I ran. I just ran before she could see me. I should have done something. Poor Beech."  
  
"It was too late to do anything," I say. "You got away. That's what you were supposed to do."  
  
"He wanted allies. We should have offered to be his allies."  
  
"Don't do this to yourself, Maysilee. None of this is your fault."  
  
"We should have told him not to trust them."  
  
"I _did_ tell him. He didn't believe me."  
  
She stops and looks at me skeptically. "You did? Really?"  
  
"Yeah. I did."  
  
She sighs. "I just remember him defending me when Forrest was being rude in the cafeteria. Do you remember that?"  
  
It rings a bell somewhere, but the school cafeteria in District Twelve seems like it might have been a place I read about in a very old book, the sort where the language doesn't quite feel like English anymore, and I have to read every paragraph twice to make sure I understand it. "He was a good guy," I say.  
  
She nods. "Yeah. And Gilla. What was she even doing here? She was thirteen! She couldn’t have had more than two tesserae. With thousands of slips, how could her name even come up?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Her arm was off, Haymitch. Someone sliced her arm off. And her… most of her neck was cut through."  
  
She was right before. I don't need that in my head.  
  
Maysilee keeps talking. "Anyway, I ran. I went straight into the woods. Over the little stream. I ran through it and I noticed it melted part of my boots, so I decided it wasn't safe to drink it. There was no water in my pack, either. I knew I was going to have to go back to the Cornucopia after the fighting was over -- see if there was anything left. I stayed pretty close, but it must have been a lucky choice. Everyone else either went further into the woods or up the mountain."  
  
"Didn't anybody notice that it was a volcano?"  
  
"You knew?"  
  
"You _didn't_?" I shake my head. "You and Kaydi and Ruth just did a report on the volcano story. I figured you'd have picked it up right away. The cone shape." I make the shape with my hands. "It looked just like the picture in the book. It had to be on purpose."  
  
"Well, I missed it, okay? Not everybody sees everything. We're not all geniuses."  
  
I doubt from her tone that her use of Drake's epithet is accidental. I hold up my hand. "Okay. Sorry."  
  
She glares for a minute, then the anger disappears. "No. You're right. I should have known. It _did_ look like volcano. Like a diagram of one in a book."  
  
"So you ran into the woods," I prod.  
  
"Yeah. I stayed where I was most of the day. I hid. I stayed in the shadows." She looks out over the woods, which seem almost golden, despite the lingering ash. "I saw a few people go by. A couple of the District Three kids are out here somewhere. Wyland. Cora Finley from Five. I figured they'd go deeper and not head back my way. Then I saw Poppy, just after the anthem. She was wandering around in circles. I think she saw her district partners die. I thought maybe I should be her ally. But I didn't do anything. And then she was dead."  
  
"Maysilee…"  
  
"I know. It's not my fault. You said that already. It's what every animal does."  
  
"Well, it is."  
  
"Maybe I don't want to be an animal."  
  
"I don't think you have a lot of choice there," I say. "I guess you could be vegetable, or a fungus or something. Mineral."  
  
Somewhat against her will, she laughs. "Yeah. That's good. I'll be a rock. I'll be a piece of quartz."  
  
"As long as you're not coal."  
  
"Deal." She rolls her eyes. "Anyway, I spent the day looking for shelter. Something close. I figured I'd be out of food. I found a little cave. Wyland tried to sneak up on me. I… you know… and then I left. I didn't want to stay in there."  
  
"Did you ever end up going back to the Cornucopia?"  
  
"No. I would have. I'm almost out of food. But then the mountain went up. No more Cornucopia, anyway."  
  
"And then you followed the Careers. You were going to steal their food?"  
  
"That was the thought. I lost them, or I wouldn't have let them get as far as they did. I had to stay back a little."  
  
"I'm glad you showed up."  
  
"I'm glad I found you. I was going to steal food and then go looking for you. I'm tired of being in this alone."  
  
I nod. I guess that's all there is to say. We both know that we'll be alone in the end. That's the way it works in the Hunger Games. But I guess Maysilee's been noticing some of the same things I have. I feel more normal after just an hour or so.  
  
We get up when the next rainstorm starts, and I push off deeper into the woods. Maysilee keeps up the rear, her blowgun at the ready. We hear voices at a distance once and she goes to check on it, since she's quieter when it comes to sneaking around.  
  
She comes back a minute later. "It's Arav Caper from Three and Kitty Norton from Nine," she says. "Two of the little ones. The ones the Careers called the fodder brigade."  
  
"They've made the top ten. Beat most of Filigree's allies. I like that."  
  
Maysilee smiles. "They're looking pretty hungry," Maysilee says. "Maybe we could spare some?"  
  
"You want to pick them up, too?"  
  
"No. They ran when I said hi. They're scared of the bigger kids. Probably smart. But I figured we could just leave it for them."  
  
My inclination is to say no, but of course, she's kind of trapped me. If I say no to leaving some of our ample food for a couple of little kids, I'll look really bad. "You know, they might not even find it," I say. "We could be feeding District One. There are still two of them left."  
  
But I've already unpacked a little of my dried beef. She unpacks some of hers as well, and we put it into her old, small backpack. She leaves it against a tree.  
  
We move on. I guess I'll never know if they find the gift. "They should list us as sponsors now," I say.  
  
"That's way more than _I've_ gotten from sponsors," she grumbles.  
  
We walk deeper into the woods until it's nearly dark. There' a stand of rocks that looks pretty easy to defend, and we settle in there for the night. She offers to guard while I get some sleep.  
  
"Wake me for the anthem," I say.  
  
"I think there were only… the three," she says. "The ones we…"  
  
"Yeah, I know. I figure I should look at their faces. I guess I owe them that."  
  
A few weeks ago, I think Maysilee would have tried to tell me that I don't owe them anything. They tried to kill me, and I defended myself, and I won. It would be true. But she's had three kills herself now, and I think she knows what I mean, even if I can't quite say it.  
  
She sets up to guard, sitting on a moss covered rock, her blowgun held loosely in one hand. I take my knife with me to a shadowy recess with thick grass.  
  
"You're going to sleep with the knife?" she asks.  
  
"I have been."  
  
"Remind me to wake you up from a distance."  
  
"I think you'll remember," I say. It's still pretty warm out -- the volcano must have made it harder for them to control the temperature -- so I just wad up my blanket and use it as a pillow. I stretch all the way out and go to sleep feeling safe for the first time in days.  
  
I dream about the volcano. In my dream, I'm out in the meadow, watching it from much closer. I'm not afraid, because I'm completely aware that it's a dream. For one thing, there are no other tributes in the arena with me. For another, my dad _is_ here, sitting in his old chair, drinking white liquor and watching the volcano like it's a particularly frustrating quiz show on television. He always knew the quiz answers, but of course district people are not invited to the Capitol to play those sorts of games.  
  
"Look at that," he says, slurring and waving his bottle at the mountain. "They can't even get a volcano right. People have been watching volcanoes since there _were_ people, and they can't even get it right."  
  
"Probably just as well," I tell him. "If they got it right, I'd be dead. That's not really far enough away for me to be safe. Let alone Maysilee or any of the others. They were even closer." I sit down on the grass beside him, like I used to sit on the floor. When I was eight, I asked if I could have some of his white liquor, and he told me he'd tan my hide if he caught me getting into that mess.  
  
Now, he doesn't object when I take the bottle and have a swig. He just looks at me for a minute says, "Yeah, I guess you need a drink today. It's a bad day."  
  
"I have Maysilee with me now."  
  
"And between you, you killed three kids." He shrugs. "Not saying you didn't have to. You did. But it's never a good day when you have to do a thing like that." He turns away and starts watching the mountain again. "More ash should have fallen. It didn't. There's not near enough dust in here. Look at that, boy." He points at the sky. "It's going up just like a chimney. Never coming back down."  
  
"Wonder if they got any of their own hovercrafts."  
  
Dad laughs. "I always did appreciate the way your head works, boy."  
  
I look at the mountain for a long time. The way there's a circle of fire in the sky around it, edged by lightning. All of the ash that does come in here seems to be raining down from the edges of that circle.  
  
I look over at Dad, but now he's Mom, sitting in the rocking chair, her eyebrow raised. "What are you trying to tell yourself, Haymitch? What are you looking at?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"That's not going to help you."  
  
"I don't know _yet_. It's not the sky. Even the sky here isn't real."  
  
Some bit of debris flying from the volcano hits me in the shoulder. I ignore it and look up at the fake sky, at the ring of fire. The ashes in the center are making some other shape now, some shape I know.  
  
Another bit of ash or a pebble hits me, this time in the small of my back. It's not painful, but it is annoying.  
  
Mom says, "Haymitch! Haymitch, you told me to wake you up!"  
  
The world darkens and flickers, and I smell fresh grass. I look up at the sky, instead of the ash, I see Maysilee's pin over the volcano, and then the anthem starts to play.  
  
I blink myself awake.  
  
Maysilee jerks her head up toward the sky, where the picture of Crispus Bidwell is just fading out. My knife was still in his neck when they took him up. Kavan Carroll comes next, then Donnell Moran, one dead by my hand, the other because of me.  
  
Dad -- or whatever part of me conjured his face in my dream -- was right. It's never a good day when something like that has to happen.  
  
Of course, if they'd killed me, they probably would be dancing around a campfire when my picture came up. I've seen kids do that on television before.  
  
The sky goes dark. Maysilee and I don't quite look at each other. Those three boys are hanging between us, at least for a little while. She asks if I'd mind letting her sleep for a while. I tell her it's fine.  
  
It's finally starting to get colder, so she pulls out a second blanket that came from the dead kids' packs. She's under it and asleep in minutes.  
  
I try to guess how they're playing this on television. Most alliances are starting to break up when they get down to the final ten, but here we are, just starting one. Are our fan clubs watching together, holed up somewhere in the Capitol -- hers talking about how everyone needs to get along, mine talking about favorite books? Are they arguing about which one of us will live?  
  
What story are they telling about us? I don't even know if we're the good guys or the bad guys. Are they digging up interviews from home yet, even though it's not down to the final eight? We're certainly well down into the final third of competitors. By now, Claudius Templesmith will have picked stories for each of us. I could see him making me into the villain of the piece -- running off into the forest without looking back, avoiding fights, then killing ruthlessly at the first sign of conflict. He'd probably run my snarky interview on Caesar show as much as possible. Then again, the audience liked that. It might backfire.  
  
I can't see him being able to make Maysilee out as a villain, no matter what. They certainly won't show us leaving food for other tributes, but she came off as an idealistic naïf, at worst -- not exactly the kind of thing you can spin into villainy. Probably, he's trying to imply that I'm going to turn on her in the end.  
  
I can't imagine what it's like at home. Most of the Seam probably tuned out in any meaningful sense after Beech and Gilla died. Maysilee is a town kid and I'm… me. Some of them are probably itching to make jokes about however I end up dying, which they'll inflict on Lacklen in school. They've probably already made up jokes about the squirrels.  
  
Are Mom and the others all in one camp to view, and the Donners and their friends in another? Or are they leaning on each other? I think Mom will have reached out to the Donners -- and the Berryhills, for that matter -- but she's not exactly in shape to persist if they've rebuffed her.  
  
For a second, District Twelve, so distant only a few hours ago, is up close and personal. I remember the cracks in the streets, the rough texture of the bark on our pine tree, the smears of coal dust that got into the most unlikely places. I am actually homesick.  
  
I can't dwell on it.  
  
I let Maysilee sleep through the night, and at dawn, she makes me catch a few more hours (this time, I dream about the mutt-ways under the bushes, and Danny and Lacklen are looking up through the darkness, talking about the complex under the arena).  
  
At noon, a cannon wakes me up. No one has come near us. We have lunch, then continue on our way.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maysilee and Haymitch get to know each other better.

Night falls, and we settle into a little shelter I build out of greenwood, in the shadow of a grove of trees. The night broadcast starts, and we find out that the cannon that woke me up earlier was for Clovis Wilbore, from District Ten. Maysilee spent a little time in training with him, and remembers that he kept sheep.  
  
"He could hit a rabbit with a slingshot, or at least he said so. I guess they had to -- the sheep could break their legs in rabbit holes. Horses, too. So Clovis and his brothers had to be able to use slingshots."  
  
I hope the slingshots were approved, or Clovis's brothers will find themselves in trouble, but it's too late to think about that. I guess if he said it in the training center, they already knew, anyway.  
  
"What do you think happened?" I ask.  
  
"At a guess? The Careers found him. Or a mutt. Or he ate something poison, or smelled a flower, or fell in a stream."  
  
"Well, that narrows it down."  
  
She sighs as the anthem winds down. "He was a decent guy. He didn't deserve to die."  
  
"And what? Was Gilla asking for it?"  
  
"No!" Maysilee jabs her hand into her pack, uselessly rearranging it. "No one's asking for it. Not even the Careers. This is wrong."  
  
"I guess they should just call it all off, then," I say. "Now that we've had a revelation like that. I'm sure it'll make a difference to everyone. Not that anyone will ever hear you say it. Even if they had the cameras on us, I promise, they're off watching Filigree wash her hair by now."  
  
" _You_ heard me."  
  
"Yeah, that's a real win. I'm sure Panem is shaking in its shoes to think a miner's kid knows right from wrong."  
  
Something hits me in the shoulder. I turn around to find Maysilee glaring at me, her hand full of pebbles for an extended strike. "Why are you like that?"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"You always think things can't be done. And you always put yourself down. I wish you wouldn't do that."  
  
Maysilee's sermons aren't going to be heard by anyone in the audience, but the Gamemakers are hearing them, and this conversation is likely to lead to another volcano, possibly erupting in the middle of our shelter. I decide to derail this. "Yeah, that's what everyone says. Haymitch Abernathy -- modest to a fault."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean, Haymitch."  
  
"Just being realistic."  
  
"No, you're not. You're just being a grump."  
  
I laugh.   
  
"What?" she asks.  
  
"Nothing. Just… Digger says the same thing to me. She asked me if there's a special word for it."  
  
"A word for it?"  
  
"You know -- a philosophy. I told her about existentialism once. She thinks it's funny to have words for how to think."  
  
She considers this. "Well, I guess it could be Fatalism."  
  
"You read philosophy?"  
  
"Sometimes." She sits back, relaxing her hand and dropping the pebbles. "I don't think it's anything so high-falutin', though. I think it's just Grump-ism."  
  
"Grump-ism?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. Known in some circles as Abernathism. A belief system predicated on the idea that the proper response to everything is that it's impossible, and all the world deserves is a big eye-roll."  
  
"A wise and practical philosophy," I say. "As opposed to Donnerism, which is based on the idea that guys who tie their shoes together with packing string can change the world by snapping their fingers."  
  
She lets me steer the conversation into a bizarre extrapolation of the higher principles of Abernathism versus Donnerism, and it actually goes on for more than an hour. We smooth out some dirt and write a few of the general ideas with sticks. I use this to remind her (via the Paranoia Principle, a core tenet of Abernathism) that everything we're saying is being watched and will come back on us or people we care about. I don't say it in so many words, of course, since it's true -- I just joke about how no good deed or word goes unpunished. I think she gets it, because, while she creates the rainbow and leprechaun philosophy of Donnerism, she does not make any further statements about the Games or the government.  
  
For all I know, this is on television, for the late night live broadcast. It will depend on what other people are doing. If no one else is having a conversation or hunting someone or dying, Maysilee and I have created a first -- a philosophical conversation (however absurd) aired during the Games. I certainly haven't seen one.  
  
If we _are_ on television, the audience has to be scratching its collective head at this nonsense. Digger might actually be laughing. I imagine her sitting there in the common room at the Community Home, only lit up by the light from the television, trying not to laugh because she's watching me in the arena and I could die any minute, but laughing anyway, because I'm doing my fancy classes while I'm here. I like to think of her laughing.  
  
I touch my bracelet. It's still in pretty good shape. I wonder what she makes of this alliance with Maysilee. She said she trusts me. I mean to make sure she's right to trust me. But this all must look pretty intense to her, and I guess if they're interviewing people from the Capitol who don't know us, they're probably saying things that don't sound very good to her.  
  
We lose the moonlight after a while, and it's too dark to keep trying to write in the dirt. There's only a faint starlight to go by. The Gamemakers have also apparently gotten control of the weather back, because it's getting cold again. Maysilee and I wrap up in our blankets and rest against our backpacks, close enough to each other to share a little bit of heat.  
  
I take the first watch, since I slept until noon. She drops off easily, her blowgun held loosely in one hand, in case she needs to defend us suddenly.  
  
I take as good a look at her as I can in this light. She hasn't taken many injuries -- certainly, she hasn't tangled with the squirrels, since she's not missing any chunks of flesh -- but she's covered with scratches and dirt. Her long blond hair is tangled and full of leaves. It looks like she tried to tie it back with a piece of cloth torn from her pant leg, but it hasn't done much to keep it neat. I wonder why they didn't do something more practical with it, maybe even cut it, before sending her in here. It's not like they gave us brushes and combs in the backpacks.  
  
I guess either Drake or one of the stylists just saw that pretty spill of golden hair and figured that's how she ought to look on television, without thinking about just what a few days in the arena would do to it.  
  
She hasn't taken on the emaciated look we so often see in tributes. I guess I haven't, either. It's only been five days, and we've both been pretty lucky with food.  
  
I stay up as long as I can, watching over her until the world seems glassy and I am starting to nod off. I wake her to keep her watch, and go to sleep.  
  
I dream that I'm on Calypso's island with Maysilee. Her hair is untangled and loose and golden in the sun, shining against the wine-dark sea. I wake up glad that the cameras haven't figured out a way to get inside my head yet.  
  
Maysilee has gotten some breakfast out of the packs, and caught some rain that fell while I was asleep. It wiped out what we wrote last night, which all seems kind of silly in retrospect.  
  
"Where should we head today?" she asks while we eat.  
  
"Just keep going deeper in the woods."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Just… let's keep going. See what's there." I try to give her a look to remind her about people listening, but she's not looking in my direction. I shake my head. "Do you have a better idea?"  
  
"No. I guess not. Come on. Let's go."  
  
We don't talk much while we walk. I'm starting to wonder if I'm glad of the company after all -- I didn't have to explain my actions to anyone while I was alone. And I can't very well argue that she doesn’t have a right to know where we're going. She's here with me and matching me step for step. She's on my side. I just can't actually answer her without a lot of _other_ people knowing, and I don't have any special interest in telling them. The worst part is that I can't even explain to her why I'm not explaining, and I'm starting to get irritated that she doesn't just _know_. It's easier to talk to people when you don't actually have to say anything.  
  
The sun is high when we hear a high-pitched scream. There's no way to tell how far away it is, because we're going through an area with a lot of exposed rock face, and the sound is echoing. We stop. A cannon goes off.  
  
Forty people are dead. We've reached the final eight. In other years, this is where they'd be sending the reporters back to the districts to stay with the families for the rest of the Games, but this year, they may have started that at the final sixteen. Either way, District Twelve will be on screen tonight.  
  
The cannon is followed by laughter.  
  
Maysilee comes up beside me and whispers, "I can't tell where they are."  
  
I nod. "We should get up out of here, in case they're close."  
  
We scramble up to the top of the rocks and into softer, pine needle coated ground above. The laughter comes again. It's from somewhere behind us. I have no doubt that it's Filigree. There's another scream, and the cannon blows again.  
  
Maysilee and I look at each other. I expect we're both thinking of the pair of little kids we left food for.  
  
She closes her eyes tightly, then takes a deep, shaky breath. "Come on," she says, and turns. This time, she leads us further into the woods.  
  
Early in the evening, we come out of the woods into a meadow, a smaller version of the one where the Cornucopia sat. This resemblance is obviously not accidental. There is a fountain at the center, shaped like the Cornucopia, with water pouring down out of its curved tail, catching in a bird bath at the bottom. Butterflies flutter around it.  
  
"Those things sting," I tell Maysilee.  
  
"The _butterflies_?"  
  
"Yeah. Hurts."  
  
"Great. Do you think that water is safe?"  
  
"It might be. The Cornucopia food is safe." I shake my head. "But we get enough water when it rains. Let's not chance it."  
  
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking." She wrinkles her nose. "It sure is pretty, though. It's a shame whoever built this arena is a Gamemaker instead of a gardener. I bet he could make wonderful gardens for people in the Capitol."  
  
"Maybe it could be a second career," I suggest. "Want to camp down?"  
  
She nods. We head a little way into the woods for cover, but keep the little fountain in sight.  
  
This is the third night now, and we have a rhythm. I set about making a shelter, which I finish just in time for the evening rain, and she goes out with our water bottles. She takes her blowgun and darts with her.  
  
It's been a while since either of us has seen a mutt (other than the butterflies, which seem to be leaving us alone), and I guess neither of us is really thinking about them. Maysilee is sealing up the water bottles and I'm trying to think of something to do for the night when the large black and white bird hops up and lights on Maysilee's open backpack.  
  
"Shoo," she tells it, waving her hand in its direction.  
  
It dips its head into her pack and grabs a strip of beef. We have a lot, but not enough to feed the birds, unless we're not planning on living very long.  
  
"I said, 'shoo,'" she says, and gives the backpack a little kick.  
  
The bird loses its balance and hops off, but quickly gains its feet. It stubbornly returns to the bag and grabs another bit of food.  
  
She grabs the bag and pulls it over, knocking the bird off. She zips it.  
  
The bird bounces from foot to foot and makes a sound somewhere between a crow and a jay. It doesn't leave. It hops forward and pecks Maysilee in the hand, hard enough to draw blood.  
  
I realize that it's _too_ bold.  
  
She grabs her blowgun.  
  
I think of the squirrels. I manage to say, "Hey, Maysilee, I don't think you should --"  
  
Then she blows a dart into the bird. It falls backward with a shrieking caw, and then the trees around the meadow seem to burst open. Birds boil out of them, responding to the death shriek of the first one.  
  
There is no time to do anything other than try and protect ourselves. We grab our blankets and put them over our heads and run for the rudimentary shelter I've built. My pack is inside, and we huddle around it. The shelter collapses. The greenwood pops up and kills a few of the birds -- or at least stuns them -- but the loose branches and large leaves fall down on top of us.  
  
The world becomes the whirring of wings, the high calls of the birds. My hand is pecked at. Maysilee yells as one gets her knee. She grabs it and wrings its neck, which does no good in the middle of this, but I kind of envy her having the wherewithal to do it.  
  
"No!" I hear her yell, and as she does, the pressure of the birds on us lifts, and I hear them fly away.  
  
Maysilee runs out of the shelter. She throws down her blanket. "My bag!"  
  
I look up. I can see the birds trailing away into the sunset. They must be pretty strong, because they have carried away Maysilee's backpack, and everything in it.  
  
This was apparently the goal, because the attack is over. There are about six bird bodies on the ground, and the whole area is dusted with feathers.  
  
"Are you okay?" I ask.  
  
"Other than having nothing to eat for however long I have left, I'm fine."  
  
"You got your darts?"  
  
She nods. "They were in my pocket. Glad you already had my blanket out."  
  
"Then we're fine. I have enough food for us."  
  
"We don't know how long we'll be here."  
  
"There are only seven of us left," I point out. "It can't be long."  
  
"And one or the other of us will die, anyway?"  
  
I don't answer this. Obviously, it's true. I go into the meadow to check the trees for the mutt-ways that let the birds in. I climb one of the ones they flew out of, and it takes me a while to find them. These are better hidden, but I do finally start spotting them -- they look like little knotholes, but when I stick my finger in, they're smooth concrete. There are too many to close, and if I burned down the trees, it would be a big signal to all the remaining tributes that we're here. I guess I have to leave them alone.  
  
Well, I spit in one, for spite, but it's not going to stop a thing.  
  
When I get back to Maysilee, she's sitting on the remaining backpack and trying to pull apart the knots in her hair. A fairly large chunk falls to the ground.  
  
She picks it up and shoves it in her pocket. She's been crying.  
  
"Let's get the shelter set up again," I say.  
  
She nods, and we work on it until it's reasonably secure. We shake the feathers and bird droppings out of our blankets, then wrap up in them for the night. There are several holes pecked in both of them, so neither of us exactly getting the full benefit. Finally, Maysilee suggests that we put the blankets together, hoping they can cover each other's holes, and share them.  
  
"Just to keep warm," she says, then looks up at the sky. "Digger, if you're listening, he's un-stealable. I'm just freezing cold."  
  
"She trusts me. And you," I say, and start rearranging things. We layer the blankets together, and it ends up with only one place where the holes overlap. I sit up close to Maysilee, and we wrap ourselves up together.  
  
She is quiet for a while, then says, "You started to tell me not to shoot."  
  
"Oh. I ran into trouble with some squirrels earlier. The first one called all the others. Just thought of it at the last minute."  
  
"Squirrels?"  
  
"Those little gold ones. They took a few chunks off me. That's what got my earlobe." I turn my head and tap it.  
  
She looks at it. "Well, you'll have to get that fixed up in the Capitol."  
  
"If I end up back in the Capitol, I'm pretty sure I'll have other things to worry about."  
  
"Oh, but earlobes are important."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"Ask your girl," she says, grinning. "They make darn fine nibbling."  
  
"And whose earlobes have you been nibbling?"  
  
"A lady doesn't nibble and tell." She grins.  
  
I laugh. "Fine. I'll make it up. Let's see, who shall it be…?"  
  
"Eli Cartwright," she says quickly. "He was my boyfriend for months last year. Now, please don't make anything else up."  
  
We hear the strains of the anthem and reluctantly unwrap ourselves. The two faces in the sky are, in fact, the little ones from the "fodder brigade" -- Arav and Kitty. I try to stop myself from thinking we wasted the food we left for them, but I'm not quite fast enough. Instead, I just hate myself for it a little bit.  
  
We go back to the shelter and curl up under our combined blanket again. I put my arm over her shoulder, and she snuggles up beside me, and when she turns her face up, I half think she's going to kiss me.  I'm try to think how to remind her that I can't do that.  
  
Instead, she says, "Tell me about your girl."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Tell me about Digger. I don't know her very well. She seems nice. And if she has to see you curled up under a blanket with me, you should at least be talking about her. I mean, this can't look good."  
  
I consider it, and decide it probably is the best way to deal with the situation. I'm most likely not going to get back to District Twelve -- if it comes down to Maysilee and me, I know what's expected of the boy in that situation -- and I don't want Digger's last thought of me to be that I was cheating on her two weeks after our toasting. "What do you want to know?" I ask.  
  
"Whatever you want to tell me. How'd you meet her?"  
  
"She lived down the street from me on the Seam," I say. I have to be careful about this, because some of how we met isn't anyone's business, even Maysilee's. No one needs to know that Digger was trying to hide her father's death, because her mother was already dead and she didn't want to go to the community home. No one needs to know that her baby brother starved to death because she was nine years old and didn't know how to take care of him. I think about it, then say, "It was right after my dad died. She knew Mom was in mourning and wasn't at work. Her little brother was sick. He… he didn't make it. Mom helped her out. Took care of everything for her. And she stayed with us for a few weeks. We got to be friends."  
  
"I'm surprised she didn't just keep staying with you."  
  
"You are?" I raise my eyebrows. "Come on, Maysilee. You know how it is. Half the town didn't want me sitting in class with their little princes and princesses. I remember people saying I'd give everyone fleas or whatnot, and start them up drinking like my dad. I'd never even _had_ a drink then, but they said it anyway. You don't really think they'd give my family custody of someone else, do you?"  
  
She makes a hissing sound. "That's stupid. It always has been. And no one has fleas."  
  
"Well, I've been bit by a few that came in with squirrels and rats and things," I say. "But Mom would have died of embarrassment if I'd ended up crawling with bugs myself. I think she was embarrassed that anyone would even think it."  
  
"Anyone who said it ought to be embarrassed for being a filthy liar," Maysilee says. She narrows her eyes and glares at the long-past people who tried to kill my academic career, which has never seemed further away than it does right now. She shake she her head sharply. "So, your mom helped her straighten things out?"  
  
"Yeah. And we stayed friends. She'd join us for dinner sometimes" -- I don't mention that this was usually when she'd caught us a rabbit -- "and we just… we were always together. When everyone started dating, it made sense that we would, too." I feel like this doesn't really express everything. It sounds boring when I say it like that. I consider embellishing it, but it occurs to me that reporters may have already talked to Digger about this, and I don't want to say anything that contradicts what she's said. I decide that it's better to stick to the truth. "I fell crazy in love with her," I finish. It sounds half-rehearsed. "She's great."  
  
"Also, very lucky," Maysilee adds.  
  
"What about you?" I ask. "Anyone special, except for the earlobe nibbling at the shoe store?"  
  
She shakes her head. "No. Not really. I guess I always figured someone would show up and sweep me off my feet. I guess that's off the table."  
  
"You still have a chance. If you win, you should find someone."  
  
She glances up at me, then looks away. With only seven tributes left, the fact that only one of us can live through this is starting to seem much larger than it once was.  
  
I keep watch while she sleeps until the middle of the night, then we switch. I dream about the mountain again, and that burning ring that the ash escaped through. The lightning at its edges. Even the sky isn't real.  
  
When I wake up, Maysilee is using my spare knife to hack off her hair just above the line where it's matted. It's uneven and choppy, but it looks better than the matted mess. She shakes it out and finger combs it.  
  
"Hope you don't mind me borrowing it," she says, putting the knife back. "I just couldn't stand that anymore."  
  
"it's fine. You going to bury the hair, or do you want it in the bag?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Can't just leave it here."  
  
"Are we going to start the morning bickering?" she asks.  
  
"No. I'm just saying, why leave breadcrumbs?"  
  
"Maybe those birds will take it and make a nest."  
  
This gives me an idea. I take the matted hunk of hair and climb the same tree I climbed yesterday. I shove it down one of the mutt-ways. Let the Gamemakers decide what to do with it.  
  
We start out again. It's harder to talk in the sunlight, and we pass maybe ten words before we stop for lunch. Maysilee asks where we're going again, and I give her food instead of answering.  
  
We start off again when we finish eating, heading deeper into the woods. We must be going uphill, because I'm winded, but it doesn't really seem like it. Maysilee is also tired, and getting more than a little annoyed at me not telling her and the Gamemakers and the viewing audience what we're doing, despite repeated prodding.  
  
Just before sunset, we get to the hedge.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maysilee grows increasingly impatient as Haymitch refuses to leave the hedge.

I swear under my breath. We've got to be miles from the last place I ran into the hedge, but it's still here, and it doesn't show any signs of stopping. There are no guards, and the thing doesn't seem to be armed, so I don't think it's the end of the arena, but they obviously don't want me going any further.  
  
Maysilee stares at it. "What is this, Haymitch?"  
  
"I don't know. I thought it might have petered out somewhere. Guess not."  
  
"Are you maybe going to tell me _anything_?"  
  
I shake my head. "Let's settle in. This should guard us from the back, but it'll trap us, too, so we can't slack off on watches."  
  
Maysilee sighs. "They couldn't just give us a notebook, I guess." She looks to the sky, but no parachutes come down. I know I've gotten nothing. Maysilee hasn't mentioned getting anything, either. I wonder what Drake's doing back in the Capitol. Is it really that hard to find us sponsors? We didn't seem to be lacking in fans.  
  
Maybe our fans are all broke.  
  
Or maybe Drake can't get the things we want -- things like carrot cake and notebooks aren't exactly in the usual run of sponsor gifts -- and thinks we're doing all right on the things we need, so he's holding off for an emergency.  
  
Or maybe he's not bothering.  
  
At any rate, we're not going to get a notebook. I wonder if I could get across the idea in the code I used for our meetings, writing them in the dirt, but I don't think I can. The symbols I made up were to remind us of things we'd already been talking about. I don't know if I can really express anything that she hasn't already figured out, and if she'd already figured it out, I wouldn't have to figure out a way to tell her.  
  
"Maybe we should go back into the woods," she says. "I don't like being trapped here."  
  
"I like the idea of dealing with District One even less."  
  
I can see her biting down on an argument, and she finally just starts getting us ready to camp down for the night. While we're splitting out something to eat (Maysilee is talking about trying to find some other food, "in the unlikely occurrence that we live for a while"), a cannon goes off.  
  
She looks up at the sky, though we won't know for another couple of hours. "Six," she says. "Who's left?"  
  
"Us," I say. "Two from District One -- Filigree and the redhead boy."  
  
"Moonstone?"  
  
"If you say so.  Did someone really look at a baby and say, 'I know -- we'll call him 'Moonstone'?"  
  
"Apparently." She thinks. "I think one of the boys from Three is still out here. And maybe one of the boys from Seven?" She covers her face. "Haymitch, I can't even keep track of who's dead! There's someone else, and I honestly don't even know if it's a girl or a boy! What kind of person am I?"  
  
I sit down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. "The kind who's heard forty-two cannons go off in a week. It's really hard to keep track."  
  
She takes a few deep breaths to calm down, then leans back against me. "What are we going to do if it ends up as us, Haymitch?"  
  
"Make the Gamemakers get creative," I tell her. It's even something like a plan.   
  
There's no handy greenwood, so the hedge is our only shelter. We wrap up in the blankets again, arms around each other for warmth, sitting up against a large tree trunk so that it will be easier to get up quickly if we need to. It probably looks romantic to the audience, but we're both dirty and bloodied and we smell terrible. The fact that one or the other of us going to be dead soon puts a pall over things as well. I hope Digger realizes that at home.  
  
We stay up together without talking until the anthem plays. We've lost Birch Holt, from District Seven. Neither of us talked to him in training, but I remember that Filigree threatened to kill him with an axe, because she wanted to prove that she could kill a lumberjack with his own tools. I wonder if that's what happened.  
  
Maysilee goes to sleep beside me. I feel her arms loosen around my waist. After a while, she smiles in her sleep. I rest my chin on her head and try to think straight.  
  
I want to go home.  
  
I don't know what my chances are against the Careers -- or the other two tributes left wandering around -- and I don't know what the Gamemakers may throw at us. The audience doesn't like to watch people starve to death, so I doubt they'd just leave us to drift around the arena. Sooner or later, they'll force us to deal with each other.  
  
I try to remember what they've done with district partners in the past. Most of them split up quickly, probably so that they won't have to think about facing their friends and neighbors if one of them wins and the other dies. I don't have that luxury. We're down this far. At this point, there's a really good chance of it ending up with us. If they send a big mutt, I can always jump in front of it to help her before she gets killed, but what if they decide to just make us crazy? What if I can taste home so clearly that I give in and do what they want me to do?  
  
It's a given that I'd lose what friends I have. They might pay lip service to the idea that the Games make terrible things happen to people, but they'd never forgive me, not really. They're all Maysilee's friends first, even Danny. I can't imagine my family and Digger would quite look at me the same way again, either, even if they'd make an effort. Mom would die thinking she'd raised someone who could kill a friend just to win.  Killing Maysilee is off the table.  
  
I look up at the hedge, at the way it blocks the starlight, leaving us in a black shadow. I wonder what's on the other side. If it's reasonably safe, maybe I could get her through it and block the way back while she's sleeping, then let the rest of us duke it out on the inside.  
  
The thought comes smoothly, but the cold, reptilian part of my brain recoils from it. I have a right to live. I want to live. I want to go home and see my mother and my brother. I want to marry the girl I love -- properly -- and have a real life. It's not too much to ask, and it's not fair that I should have to walk away from it. I might not be the best person in the world, but I sure never did anything I ought to die for.  
  
I think about Gilla and Beech. And Huller and Cotton and everyone else we trained with. About Digger's little brother, starved to death on Seam. About Daddy, his overactive brain trapped inside his skull, useless in District Twelve. I think about finding him dead in the living room after school, after watching him waste away for a year and a half. I think about Mom, realizing that her own cough wasn't getting any better. It's never fair.  
  
I decide not to decide right now. I don't need a drastic plan of action. It hasn't come down to the two of us yet. Maybe it won't be a choice I'll even have to make. Maybe someone will just kill me, the way they generally do in the Games, and neither one of us will be forced into making some kind of ridiculous, unbalanced, sadistic decision.  
  
I stay up into the middle of the night, then wake Maysilee for her watch. I have a dream about home. Mom is healthy -- she just woke up cured one morning -- and she wants to have a picnic. But when she opens the basket, it's filled with the feathers from the black and white birds, and beneath them is the bloody knife from Crispus Bidwell's neck. There are bits of gristle stuck in the serrated edge, and tendons trailing from it.  
  
Mom hands it to me, but when I take it, her grip tightens, and she's Kavan Carroll, kneeling on my chest, blade coming down at me. This time, there is no Maysilee coming to save me. I feel the blade go into my flesh, and Kavan laughs as he digs around inside my body. He pulls out my ribs, my heart, my lungs. I watch him as he burns them, then shoves them back inside me. Someone pulls me away, and then I'm blacked out, and I feel my mother's hands, her fingers combing through my hair. She shushes me and kisses my head.  
  
The dream breaks up, and I coast on the edge of waking for a long time. I become aware that they're Maysilee's hands comforting me, her arms around me, her lips occasionally pressing against my head, her bosom cushioning my cheek, and she is distinctly not my mother. In my drifting, mostly sleeping mind, this seems to be all right.  I can feel my bracelet from Digger on my wrist, but Maysilee is so warm and so present that I can't let go.  
  
When I wake up, I'm holding her very close. I am glad they gave me that shot in the Capitol.  If they hadn't, I'd have a lot of explaining to do, both to my girl and to the girl I'm clinging to.  As it is, I move my hand away from Maysilee's breast, where it has been resting lightly, and pull away from her.  Her eyes seem very bright, and her lips are slightly parted, and it somehow doesn't matter that we're both filthy and smelly and tired. Shot or no, not kissing her -- and maybe not stopping there -- takes all my will power.  
  
I mutter an apology and get to my feet. She tells me not to worry about it.  
  
We count out what's left of our supplies, and decide we can still afford to have a bit of dried beef for breakfast. If I get out of here, I am never going to eat the stuff again. I think I'll also be skipping the raisins, which have been serving as our vegetables when we bother. Maybe I'll just skip dried foods altogether.  
  
"I think we should go back into the woods," Maysilee says again when we've finished re-packing. "Really, Haymitch, this isn't safe." She jerks her chin at the hedge.  
  
I put the backpack on. "Just a little further."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Just… come on, Maysilee. If we go back into the woods, we're going to end up dealing with District One."  
  
She sighs and follows me.   
  
By noon, there's no change in the hedge. Maysilee again proposes doubling back. I turn to the hedge and try to separate the branches. I can't even tell how thick it is. I ask Maysilee to wait while I climb a tree and get a better view. She's not gracious about it.  
  
I pick the tallest tree I can find, but I'm only halfway up when the branches become brittle. I'm not even at the top of the hedge yet, but I have to come down. It won't support me. I doubt it would support Maysilee, either.  
  
If I were alone, I _would_ carefully double back, find a taller tree, and have a look. But since the only point of it would be to get the lay of the land and come back here, I decide not to open up the argument again.  
  
We go on along the hedge, and I can almost feel Maysilee's glare on me the whole way. For a little while I try to talk to her in code. I bring up Daedalus and Icarus, stuck in the Labyrinth, the same one Theseus got out of. Of course, since I'm pretty sure it's impossible to _actually_ break out -- which Maysilee knows -- the equivalence isn't perfect. I just thought she might pick up on getting over the wall.  
  
She's tired, though, and not used to not being the leader, or at least the one with the big ideas. I give up talking. She only talks when she stops to ask me where we're going and why.  
  
Even when we camp down at night, we're short-tempered with each other. No one has died today, which means the Gamemakers will be getting restless, too. Maysilee knows it as well as I do. She and I have evaded combat for days. All they have to do is light the hedge on fire, and we'll be forced into Filigree's arms.  
  
I don't know why they haven't done it, honestly. The others must be doing something that looks more interesting.  
  
I pull out some dinner and give Maysilee her half. She sits down across from me.  
  
"Haymitch, do you really think they don't know you're trying to get through the ledge?" I nearly jump out of my skin, but she just rolls her eyes. "You've been poking around at it for days. You may as well just say what we're doing."  
  
That far, I guess I could. I'm not even sure they'd blink an eye at me trying to find the edge of the arena, if I said that. I can't be the first one to look for it. I'm sure it's guarded with something more powerful than a hedge, and there's no danger of anyone breaking out. The hedge is probably here to keep us closer to the others, but I'm sure they will find a way, if given time, to work around any breach in it.  
  
The problem is that question she keeps asking -- _Why?_  
  
I don't entirely know, because I don't know what I'll find. Maybe it will be something I can use in the course of the Games -- weapons, power sources, things like that. I doubt they'd like it very well, since we're supposed to preserve the illusion that we're all just out here killing each other because it's fun. We're not supposed to remind the audience that we're in prison and everything we do is forced. It would embarrass them to be stripped of their pretenses.  But still, it would be a Games strategy.  Nothing to get really turned around about.  
  
But what if there _is_ some way out? What if there are guards, and we tangled with them? They'd retaliate, but maybe -- _maybe_ \-- I could get a coded message out to Mom or Digger to get ready to move at a moment's notice.  If there is a way out, they might think I'm looking for it if I talk too much.  
  
Then there's the question of Maysilee herself. If she even suspects that the thought of shutting her out there to keep her safe has crossed my mind, she'll be furious. And certainly, if I say anything about it, the Gamemakers will stop me. I've seen a few boys over the years try chivalry in the arena. Those are the boys they love to break and turn into monsters if they don't die quickly enough. If I do end up in a position where I have to save Maysilee -- and I hope I don't -- then it'll have to come as a complete surprise to them.  
  
Given that I'm treating her like baggage that I'm dragging along, I can at least be sure that I'm playing _that_ part right. If something happens to her and I do end up getting home, I will hear about this, at length, from Digger and Mom.  
  
After the anthem plays, we settle down in our blankets. I ask her to tell me about life in the shops, since I told her all about Digger. She doesn't warm to it right away, as she's still not happy with me, but eventually, she gets going. She likes being a shopkeeper. I prod her for all the minutiae -- keeping books, keeping track of recipes, how they pay taxes, everything. I don't know if I'm interested in it or not, but it's something I know absolutely nothing about, and I might as well learn about it. The opportunities for learning about anything in the future seem somewhat limited.  
  
Besides, I'm tired of Maysilee being cold to me.  
  
"And you were going to get your uncle's stationery shop?" I ask when there's a lull.  
  
"Yeah. I like it there."  
  
"I always wondered how they stayed afloat. Who shops there?"  
  
She shrugs. "Some of the other merchants. They have business stationery. The mayor and his wife have a lot of correspondence. The district government buys the school notebooks. We don't sell the reaping cards, of course -- those come from the government and only go to the government -- but we order them and keep them. The tesserae keepers come in every month with new… you know."  
  
"Charming."  
  
"Well, it's not like we were jumping up and down asking for the opportunity. Whoever the stationer is has to do it."  
  
I nod. "Okay. I get it."  
  
"I like the smell of the paper. And all the fancy pens. There's a section where you can buy books, too. That's how we knew your family. Your parents bought books for you and Lacklen from Uncle Herk."  
  
"Really? I always thought they just ordered those from the Capitol."  
  
"Nope. Uncle Herk said that your dad started coming in when your Mom turned up pregnant, and put a little bit of money down every month to buy you a book. Same for Lacklen. Do you still have them?"  
  
"Yeah," I say, thinking of the plastic box in the cupboard. "Yeah, we do."  
  
"Any good stories in them?"  
  
"A few," I say. "Why? Do you want to hear one?"  
  
"If you can remember one." She shrugs. "I don't know. It seems like something to do. I don't feel like sleeping yet."  
  
"Do you have a favorite?"  
  
"No. Tell me your favorite."  
  
I realize that, while I could tell Mom's favorite, or Lacklen's, or Digger's, I never picked a favorite of my own. I decide to tell her Mom's. I figure Mom would like it.  
  
"Once upon a time," I say, "there were three little pigs --"  
  
"Are you kidding?"  
  
"It's my mom's favorite. Are you questioning my mom's taste?"  
  
She holds up her hand and manages a smile. "Never in a million years."  
  
"All right, then. Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. Two of them were idiots." Maysilee snorts laughter; I grin and keep going. "The other one was their big brother, so he had to keep them alive, or Mama Pig would be cross with him. It wasn't easy, because there was a wolf who wanted to eat them. The first pig built his house out of straw, because apparently he'd never heard of wind. The wolf blew it down, but the pig ran next door to his middle brother's place. Not too bright, because that one made his house out of twigs. The wolf?" I make a sweeping motion with my hand. "Blew it away."  
  
"What about the hairs of their chinny-chin-chins?" Maysilee asks. "And the wolf telling them what he's about to do?"  
  
"The wolf in my version isn't that dumb. I mean, if you're a wolf, and you're planning on catching a little pig, are you going to talk to him long enough that he can get out the back and run next door? Those little pigs are just lucky it takes a while to run over straw and twigs."  
  
"I see your subtle point."  
  
"Anyway, both of the little pigs run over to their brother's house. The smart brother. He built his house out of bricks. So they all go inside, and the wolf blows and blows, but the house doesn't fall down. Then the smart pig goes over to the fireplace and says, loud as he can, 'Boy, I hope the wolf doesn't think to come down the chimney. It's hardly guarded at all, and he can get all three of us.' Then he lights a fire.  
  
"Now, the wolf most likely figures that the brick-house one is as dumb as the others -- I would -- and that's when he makes his first mistake. Which also turns out to be the last one. He climbs up on the roof, and jumps straight down the chimney -- right into the soup pot the pigs have just put out. They have themselves a nice dinner. Then the smart one kicks the other two out and tells them to learn to build better houses for themselves before he puts them in the pot, too. The end."  
  
"Why do I think that's _not_ the way it was written down?"  
  
"It gets written down a lot of ways."  
  
We talk a little while longer, making jokes about what would happen if the little pigs had the glass slipper and the genie tried to take it away. It feels good -- normal -- but I know it won't last. In the daylight, she'll start to get impatient again. I guess it's because at night, we're not actually doing anything. In the day, we are, and that's where the trouble comes. That's when things are real again.  
  
Sometime after midnight, or at least what feels like after midnight, a cannon goes off. We're down to five.  
  
Neither of us feels like talking after that, and I let her go to sleep while I keep watch. I don't know if she actually sleeps at first, but she certainly makes a show of it. She's definitely asleep when I wake her just before dawn. My intention is to start right out, but she makes me get a few hours before we go -- "What use are you going to be if we run into someone we have to fight, and you're pretty much sleepwalking?"  
  
When I wake up, the sun is high, but not quite up at noon. Maysilee is sitting on a low branch of a tree, looking out toward the forest. It'd say she was on watch, and I guess if someone came along, her expression would change, but right now, she looks lost in her thoughts.  
  
"Ready to go?" I ask.  
  
She looks down. "It didn't rain last night," she says.  
  
"What?"  
  
She climbs down to a lower branch, then grabs it and swings down to the ground. "It didn't rain. It's rained every day since they started doing it. Except last night."  
  
"We're okay on water," I say. "I have most of a gallon in the pack."  
  
"I think we need to get back to that meadow with the fountain -- the one that looks like the Cornucopia."  
  
"That's where they'll want us to go. To force us into combat."  
  
"And it's where we'll end up going in the end. Maybe we should get there and hold it. It's easier to hold a thing than to take it."  
  
"Just a little further, Maysilee," I say. "Come on."  
  
I start off along the hedge.  
  
"Haymitch, why? Why does it matter?"  
  
I don't answer her. I can't answer her. I don't know it myself. But I know I have to get past this hedge.  
  
I keep going. I know she'll come along. She doesn’t want to be alone any more than I do.  
  
She catches up to me a minute later, and her voice is practically a hiss. "Haymitch, we'll need water. If they've stopped making it rain… if they're trying to bring us there…"  
  
I keep moving. She keeps saying that we should go back, and asking me why we're moving away from the water, when it's only going to get worse as time goes by.  
  
We've been going long enough that I can no longer see where we camped last night when I hear a soft sound behind me.  
  
I turn.  
  
Maysilee is sitting on a mossy rock, her arms crossed and her lips pressed tightly together.  
  
"Just until tonight," I say. "You can pick the direction tomorrow."  
  
"I want to know why you're doing this, Haymitch. I'm mostly willing to go along with you because I believe in you. But right now, we've got a bigger problem than what's on the other side of this hedge, and if you don't tell me why that's all you're paying attention to, then I'm not taking one more step."  
  
"Because it has to end somewhere, right?" I say. I look around. I have no doubt that there are cameras on us. Refusal to answer will be as much of an answer as words -- they'll know I'm doing something I think they won't like. Best I can do is soft-pedal it. They'll know it's more than curiosity. Maysilee is frowning. I sigh. "The arena can't go on forever."  
  
She doesn't look surprised. I guess the Gamemakers aren't, either, though I expect they'll kill me for bringing up the mechanics of the thing when I'm possibly on a live feed. The audience probably is surprised, but then, some of them actually believe we're all happy to be here competing.  
  
"What do you expect to find?" she asks.  
  
"I don't know," I say.  I do the best I can to turn it into a Games question. "But maybe there's something we can use."  
  
Maysilee nods. "Okay, then. In that case, maybe we should use what we've already got."  
  
She pulls the backpack off of my back and fumbles to the bottom, where a lot of forgotten tools have migrated over the last few days. After a little bit of shifting, she comes up with the blowtorch.  
  
And smiles.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch and Maysilee make it past the hedge, but the Games catch up to them there.

I take the blowtorch, which I hadn't thought of since we found it in Donnell Moran's backpack. "How long have you been waiting to tell me I forgot about this?" I ask.  
  
She shrugs. "I figured I'd wait until you told me what we were doing. Wouldn't want to give anything away."  
  
I look at the settings. It comes with its own flame striker, so we won't need matches. "I wonder what the Careers wanted it for."  
  
Maysilee shudders. "I can honestly say, I don't want to know."  
  
I prime the striker a few times, and a small lick of flame appears at the tip of the torch. There's a controller on the side that brings up the intensity. I've taken enough mining safety classes -- everyone has to -- that I almost reach for a pair of goggles to protect my eyes, but of course, I don't have any. I guess if something blows up, I'll have worse problems than shrapnel in my eyes.  
  
I start cutting the hedge. Sparks travel a little distance, but, no matter what it looks and feels like, this hedge is not dry wood. That must be why they didn't burn it earlier. It's some kind of plastic, and it stinks as it melts.  
  
Maysilee works at my side, pulling away the rubbish and tossing it aside as we make our way through, a little bit at a time. We have to clear it in layers, since it doesn't just pull away. I make arched gateways, going about six inches deeper into the hedge with each run. We switch jobs for a while. The pile of plastic twigs is getting high, and I think that it would make a pretty effective way to block her out there, if it comes to that. Just pile it back up, melt it together, and lock the door, so to speak.  
  
The sun sets, and we decide, reluctantly, to stop working. I'm convinced they'll find a way to seal it up while we sleep. Maysilee thinks they won't bother.  
  
When they play the anthem, we see Cora Finley, from District Five. I did knot training with her, but that's all either of us can remember. It's down to us, the two from District One, and a boy from District Three.  
  
It's very cold, and Maysilee and I settle into the hole we've made in the hedge. It's not the safest place there is, trapped on three sides, but it's warm, and honestly, we haven't seen anyone else for days.  
  
"Where do you think they are?" Maysilee asks.  
  
"Probably where you said. The little meadow with the fountain. Waiting for us."  
  
She sighs. "Well, let's hope we find something on the far side so we don't have to go there."  
  
"Yeah -- and if we don't… I'm sorry." I can't imagine anything sounding weaker -- "Hey, sorry I may have gotten you killed because I had get through the hedge" -- but Maysilee just smiles and leans against me to sleep. I'm becoming very used to the feel of her beside me.  
  
I reach across and hold tight to my token from Digger. She seems so far away, like I lost her years ago, and I've been in mourning. I don't close my eyes -- I'm on watch -- but I try to bring her into my mind, building her up one bit at a time. She has tiny feet. They always swim in her charity shoes. Her skinny legs always have little scratches on them from her forays into the woods, and whenever she wears skirts to school, I can see them. The curves of her body are deep for a girl as thin as she is. I can put my hands around her waist. She has a long face, and kind of a square chin… I think. I try to remember. Is her chin pointed, or squared off? This seems very important.  
  
I picture her at the lake, her short black hair spread out in a halo on the ground. It seems to be choppy, cut off with a knife.  
  
I shake this away, and remember it as it really is -- soft, curled under, just above her shoulders. She says it's something Sae does when she cuts it that makes it do that. When she needs it away from her face, she pushes it back with… something.  
  
I try to remember. A length of braided yarn, maybe? I know it's not a ribbon. No one can afford ribbons. I try to remember how she had her hair done at the Justice Building, when we did the toasting. I can't do it. Every time I try, it's something different, and none of the things I think of seems right.  
  
Her eyes, though… I remember her eyes. They are huge, and pale even by Seam standards. Eyes the color of fog that rises over the forest. They're ringed by long, thick lashes. When she's been eating right, they're strikingly beautiful. When she's starving, they seem to sink back into her head.  
  
I sit here in the dark of the arena, holding Maysilee and thinking about Digger's eyes. I can't remember what Digger's body felt like beside mine. I can't remember what I felt that day at the lake, not really. The arena has taken it from me. I hate the Gamemakers for this. It's not only knowing that I will never leave. It's feeling like I've never been anywhere else.  
  
Maysilee shifts in her sleep, and I kiss the top of her head. Comb my fingers through her hair. It hasn't been washed properly with soap, but with the rain every day, it's not too dirty, now that she's cut it.  
  
I stop, realizing that the cameras are on me. Maybe they'll show it, maybe they won't -- it depends what story the Gamemakers are telling -- but someone will see it.  
  
I don't feel like sleeping. I just stay up through the night, trying to piece together my life in District Twelve in my mind. I'm careful to include the bad things. They make it more real. But no matter what I do, it doesn't seem really _there._ This scares me more than anything else that's happened to me here, and it just keeps spiraling further out of control.  
  
When I can't sit still any longer, I move Maysilee as gently as I can, and go to the tree and back, pacing. I want to say something to them at home, but I can't think what. I don't know if it would be shown, no matter how slow things are in the late night live show.  
  
My heart is pounding in my ears.  
  
"Haymitch?"  
  
I turn.  
  
Maysilee is standing at the hedge, blinking at me sleepily. "What's wrong?" she asks. "I mean, aside from everything."  
  
I shrug. Aside from everything, nothing's wrong, except that I can't remember how my girl wears her hair, and I'm not sure what my mother was wearing when I left, and I think I was supposed to help my brother with his homework after the reaping. And I don't know who's going to keep the roof from leaking after I die, or make the fire so Mom stays warm.  
  
Maysilee stares at me for a long time. I don't know what she's seeing. Then she comes over and wraps her arms around my waist. I grab hold of her tightly. This isn't about wanting to kiss her or do any of the things I was thinking of yesterday morning. It's about having someone here, someone who's real, who's breathing, who smells bad and has ragged nails and cuts and scrapes all over her from the hedge.  
  
We hold onto each other for a long time in the moonlight.  
  
"Maysilee," I say, "if you get home -- will you take care of my family? And Digger? You'd like her. I promise. And she'll need a friend."  
  
"So will I, if I get home," Maysilee says. She pulls away and wipes her face. "You'll take care of mine, too, right?"  
  
I nod.  
  
She takes my hand and leads me back to our gateway. We wrap up in our blanket. I go to sleep. I dream that my father is waiting on the other side of the hedge. He's sitting on a rock and reading his dictionary. I am able to slip between the branches and go sit beside him.  
  
"Look at that," he says. "'Quell' means calming someone down. Do you think anyone is being calmed down?"  
  
"It also means to subdue," I tell him, and sit down. "I think that's more the point. Aren't you going to tell me all the old languages it comes from?"  
  
He snorts, the way Maysilee did when I was telling her about the three pigs. "I can't tell you a damned thing you don't know. And you didn't look it up, did you?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Didn't I always tell you to look words up, even if you think you know what they mean?" He shakes his head. "Do you know what 'sacrifice' really means?"  
  
"Do I have to die, Daddy? I don't want to."  
  
He looks at me. "You know the right thing to do." Blood comes from the corner of his mouth, the way it did so often in the last year of his life, and he fades around it until it's only a bright stab of red in the gray day, glowing the way red does when everything around it is dull.  
  
Then he disappears.  
  
When I wake up, Maysilee has already started to work on the hedge again. I get to my feet and start hauling off the extra twigs. The pile is more than waist-high now. Last night's panic seems very distant, and we're all business in the morning light.  
  
It's about noon when we break through the final layer. We push it through, and Maysilee gives a little cheer.  
  
We step out beyond the hedge.  
  
This is scrub land, the sort of thing I saw through the windows of the train as we approached the Capitol. It stretches out for miles in both directions. I can see it curving around the hedge in the distance. Far off to the left, I can still see the mountain, but even that is partly hidden by the hedge. It must run around the whole arena.  
  
Not far ahead of us, I can see that the land just ends.  
  
"There's not much, is there?" Maysilee asks.  
  
"There's _something_ ," I say. "There has to be."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because they went to a lot of trouble to keep us from getting here."  
  
"It could just be a staging area. Just a place that they had for builders before they finished it all."  
  
This is possible. Maybe there are ways down into the maintenance complex, too, but I don't say this. "Why would they just have a fringe around the arena if there's nothing here? It doesn’t make sense. Unless we're already out. Do you think we're out?"  
  
She shakes her head. "No. You know we're not out, because nobody's shooting at us."  
  
"Then we're still inside the arena, and this is here for some reason. There has to be something. They wouldn't block the way otherwise."  
  
She sighs heavily. "Maybe there's clean water. If it's not the stuff that we were supposed to use, maybe it waters the real plants." She sets off to the right, her head down against a dry wind that's blowing out here.  
  
"I'm just going up there for a minute!" I call, pointing at the end of the land.  
  
"Haymitch, _why?_ " she yells. "Why do you need to get there?"  
  
"I just do." I head up the hill. I don't think she'll follow me, but she does. I hear her come up beside me.  
  
"You're crazy," she says. "I never noticed that at home."  
  
She may be right about that. There's certainly nothing obvious up here. There are no supply crates or weapons or water sources that I can see. Just garbagy grassland with the occasional weed in it. Maybe it's not poison, since it's outside of the part of the arena that's built up.  
  
I look back down the hill at the gate we made in the hedge. A flock of pink birds comes through it and starts settling on the hillside. Some kind of crane, certainly a mutt version. I bet women in the Capitol are already placing orders for skirts made out of their feathers.  
  
"Well," Maysilee says, "at least we'll have food over here, if we can shoot one of them."  
  
"After what happened with those magpie mutts? I don't think it's a good idea."  
  
She nods and sighs again. We keep walking until there's nowhere left to walk. We've reached the end of the Gamemakers' world, and the beginning of the world beyond it.  
  
It's a cliff. It goes off in all directions, concentric to the hedge. It's obviously not a natural formation. The broken rocks at the bottom were cut from the living stone of whatever this place used to be. There is a clear line of demarcation between whatever the arena is and the world outside of it, which seems to be a kind of sparse pine forest. A pile of what I take for pine needles creeps along a circular path against some barrier I can't see. Something in the air is making the hair on my arms stand up.  
  
There actually is a stream running peacefully along just beyond it, and some perfectly normal robins and bluebirds flitting around. There's no way down that I can see, unless there's some way to collapse the cliff and get a ramp of rubble. I consider this possibility. My brain seems to be exploding with possibilities here.  
  
Maysilee comes up and stands beside me. "That's all there is, Haymitch," she says. "Let's go back."  
  
I shake my head. "No, I'm staying here."  
  
She looks down at the base of the cliff.  I see this from the corner of my eye. I don't need to look at her to see the question in her eyes, the one she's asked all along: _Why?_  
  
What she says out loud is, "All right. There's only five of us left." She waits for me to say something, but I don't. "May as well say good-bye now, anyway. I don't want it to come down to you and me."  
  
I'm not really listening. I hear her, I acknowledge what she's saying, but I'm looking at that line of pine needles. At the world outside the arena. The real world. I have never wanted anything as badly as I want it right now.  
  
And it's close enough to _touch_.  
  
"Okay," I say. I move further along the cliff. I hear her start to walk away. I figure she'll change her mind, like she did when I decided to come up here. I'll be right where she can find me.  Right here where I can see the end of it.  
  
Maybe it's good to have a few hours apart. Maybe I can figure out some way to just get down this cliff, down past that barrier, down to where the stream is twinkling in the sun. If we could get to it, we wouldn't need to worry about the Cornucopia fountain back in the forest. If there are guards, maybe they'll shoot me if I find a way to break the arena wall, but let Maysilee get a drink. If she can just hold out here, she can outlast Filigree and Moonstone and the other boy.  
  
I can't see anything where I am, so I turn left and head up toward the mountain. A lot of the machinery in the arena has to be there. That was a big effect.  
  
My head is buzzing, and I feel like I did when I drank the wine at the apartment -- not fuzzy-headed like that, but full of a strange kind of wild, untamable energy, like my nerves are being charged up with a direct electrical feed.  
  
I turn and look down toward the stream again. A mockingjay takes to the sky and flies toward me. About halfway, it abruptly swerves and goes back. I see the flash of white on the bottom of its wing.  
  
It felt something, too. It felt whatever it is between here and the world.  
  
I trip a little bit, and a pebble goes flying off the edge of the cliff. I watch it, listening for how long it takes to hit the bottom. I have a wire. Maybe, if the cliff isn't as high as it seems, I could use the wire as a kind of rope.  
  
_Why?_ Maysilee asks me in my mind. _Why does this matter?_  
  
I still don't know. But when she comes back, I'll have to tell her about the mockingjay. She'll see it as a symbol. Mockingjays always --  
  
Something hits me in the shoulder, and I turn around, expecting to find Maysilee and a handful of pebbles. She's not there.  
  
But rolling away from me on the hard ground, there _is_ a pebble. The one I've been waiting to hear land.  
  
I pick it up. It's warm to the touch.  
  
And something else.  
  
I run up along the edge of the cliff, looking for something that catches the sun. Anything will do, except for my wire, which I might need.  
  
I find a rock with flecks of metal in it. It's about the size of my fist. I pitch it over the side.  
  
Wait.  
  
I hear it this time, a faint, frying kind of sound. Then the rock comes back to me. When it lands in my hand, a shock of electricity runs up my arm.  
  
Of course.  
  
I don't know a lot about forcefields, but I've seen them now and then. I've certainly read about them. They're electrically generated, and they have enough power to throw anything backward if it hits them.  
  
This one is strong enough to hurl rocks up several meters. It has to have a strong charge. I think about the lightning around the top of the volcano.  
  
_What are you looking at?_ Mom asks me. _What are you trying to tell yourself?_  
  
I start laughing. I'm not sure why, and I must look as crazy as Maysilee accused me of being. But it's a forcefield. Electrical. It can be shorted out. They did it deliberately at the volcano, to make a hole for the ash to escape through. If we could just get a charge somehow...  
  
We could break out. We could break the arena completely. There are no guards here, no weapons. They don't think they'll need them. There's not a good place for their hovercrafts to land. We could get away for a little while and we could actually wreck the Games. Maysilee will love this. She'll understand it right away. They'll probably execute us for it (unless all of the other tributes are dead, I guess; they have to have a winner), but maybe it would be worth it. If we could just --  
  
A scream breaks into the closed circle of my thoughts. I almost ignore it. I almost keep going with my little experiment. How strong is the forcefield? What could I do to it?  
  
Then I realize something: Only one person is close enough to make that sound.  
  
My wild, insane train of thought crashes down, breaking into pieces on the sharp rocks below me.  
  
"Maysilee!" I yell.  
  
She screams again.  
  
I run down the hill, at an angle, toward where she left me, so sure she would come back. But now she's screaming, and it's not stopping.  
  
I crest a rise, and I see the pink birds I spotted earlier. They are swarming around the thrashing form of Maysilee Donner. She's halfway here from where we started.  
  
I see her hand reach up and grab at one of them. It's covered with blood.  
  
I pull out my knife and run for her, full-tilt. A bird flies at me, and I cut its wing off with one stroke.  
  
One of the others raises its head and drives its beak down into Maysilee's throat.  
  
She stops screaming.  
  
I grab the nearest bird and cut its head off. There's no reason to do it. They've done their job, and they're retreating to the forest. The last one gives me a sharp peck in the arm as it leaves, but I don't pay it any attention.  
  
I fall to my knees beside Maysilee. She is convulsing on the ground, jittering and shaking, blood pulsing up out of the artery in her neck. It soaks my hands when I try to cover it, to make it stop.  
  
"Maysilee, come on," I say. "You can't… you have to keep going. Hold on, hold on, please…"  
  
She reaches up, fumbling for my hand, and I grab it tightly with both of mine, as if I can physically hold her here with me. She turns her eyes up to me, and I can see her trying to speak, but she can't do it. Her lips just keep opening and closing. Her eyes dart around, terrified. I don't know what she's seeing. I want her to tell me, so I can keep it away from her. I feel like, if she could just talk, she could explain everything.  
  
"It's okay, Maysilee," I tell her. "It's okay, everything's okay, I'll get you out, I'll get you home. I'll --"  
  
Her hand tightens on mine, and I can feel her ragged fingernails digging into my skin. Her back arches, and her feet drum a crazy rhythm on the ground.  
  
Then, she's still.  
  
"Maysilee?" I whisper. "No, no, this… no. You were going to come back. We… you…"  
  
The cannon goes off.  
  
I can't breathe.  
  
I pick her up, shake her, beg her to wake up again, to come back to me. I tell her I'm sorry. I tell her I shouldn't let her leave. I promise not to keep any more secrets, and to go wherever she needs me to go, if she'll just wake up. Her eyes are open already.  
  
Blood from one of her wounds runs into them, and she doesn't move to wipe it away. It pools above the edge of one eye, blocking out the blue, blinding her.  
  
I wipe it away with my sleeve. It actually touches her eye. She doesn't jerk away from it.  
  
"Come on," I whisper. "Oh, please, Maysilee, come on, this isn't the way it works. We can do this. I saw a mockingjay. Do you hear me? I saw a mockingjay. It's on the outside. They always survive."  
  
She isn't hearing me, or seeing me. The blood is pooling in her eyes again.  
  
I close them.  
  
I don't put her down. I can't. I hold her, as I've held her at night for days. I try to clean the blood from her hair, which has gone scarlet. I take some of my water and wash her face. I kiss her cheeks.  
  
She stays dead.  
  
I glare up the sky. I can see a hovercraft now, circling.  
  
I put Maysilee down as gently as I can, then I lean over and kiss her on the mouth. I know she's dead, because she doesn't even care about this.  
  
"You can't have her!" I shout at the hovercraft. "I won't let you take her!"  
  
There's a blast of wind, but I don't let it move me.  
  
"Do you hear me? I won't let you! She's not yours!"  
  
The hovercraft backs off.  
  
I go back to Maysilee's body and pick it up again. I don't know how long I hold her. I'm not aware of much, except that she's not breathing, and her body seems to be cooling down faster than it should. It has to be a long time before I hear the hovercraft again. This time, it comes back accompanied by two others. Fighters.  
  
I put Maysilee down and I draw my knife. If they want combat, they can have it.  
  
"Come down here!" I yell at them. "Get down here! You want to kill me, you get down here and fight!"  
  
There is a huge roar of wind. I can feel myself being pushed backward. A hook is coming down from the center craft. The others are forcing me away.  
  
"I'm going to get out of here!" I yell. "I'm going to get out of here, and I'm going to kill all of you!"  
  
There is a sound like thunder, and I am thrown backward through space, thrown toward the cliff I so needed to reach. I expect them to just hurl me over it, but they don't. Once I'm far enough from Maysilee's body for them to gather her, they lose interest in me. I see her pulled up off the ground, the ends of her chopped off hair reaching toward the earth as she's taken away.  
  
Then there is one final gust of wind. I'm thrown like a rag doll, and I come crashing down onto the rocky ground. The world goes dark, and I know nothing for a little while.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch resolves to get out of the arena to fight the real enemy, but he has one very violent enemy left to defeat on the inside.

I am aware of being cold long before I actually wake up. I am cold, and I reach for Maysilee, but she isn't there. I do not dream of bloody revenge. I don't dream of anything that I'm aware of. I just lie there, drifting in the darkness, not able to open my eyes. I feel the hard rocks beneath me.  
  
I decide to take down the Capitol.  
  
It isn't even a struggle. I'm not even sure it can properly be called a decision, as there is not any other choice. I will take down the government, and the last thing they will see is Maysilee's mockingjay, the one they thought they could take away. I remember her tearing it from her interview dress, before I oh-so-wisely told her not to talk about it. Gia will still have it back in the Capitol. I won't tell her what I'm planning to do with it. She's nice, and she doesn't need the trouble. But I will take it back, and I will make everyone responsible for this remember Maysilee Donner -- and the rest of the kids they've killed, I guess, but I don't care about them right now -- in the last seconds of their lives.  
  
But just killing them isn't enough. If the president dies, there'll be another one just like him ready to jump in and keep things rolling along. There always is.  A quick glance at a history book is enough to know that much, at least.  The one thing that the human race has never been short on is tin pot dictators with big ambitions. I have to tear down all of it, so we can start fresh.  
  
Or not. Maybe I'll just tear it down. I can't say I have any special reason to start _anything_ fresh. We always manage to screw it up. The whole world just about got wiped out in the Catastrophes, and did we change? No. We barely managed to get on our feet again before we started plotting against each other and starting empires. We somehow starved in the middle of a world that once supported eight thousand times our population. We blew each other to bits in a war, and then we started murdering each other for entertainment. Maybe the whole thing just needs to come down.  
  
Except that the world also has people like Digger and Mom and Lacklen and Danny. Except that, until a few hours ago, it had Maysilee.  
  
I can't think about that. Mom's going to die, and they already murdered Maysilee. My brother and my friend and my girl, they'll understand. It has to go.  
  
I finally force my eyes open when I hear the national anthem, and roll over so I can see the sky. My head is throbbing, and I feel sick, but I will see Maysilee's face one more time before it disappears forever. I will not forget what she looked like.  
  
She is not alone tonight.  
  
Moonstone Gill, the redheaded boy from District One, is dead. So is Kushi Rowe from Three. I try to remember something about them, the way Maysilee would, but nothing comes to mind. The Gamemakers must have decided to end the Games. I'm left with Filigree Simms. Good. The first and last from Caesar's show. The ones I figured everyone would remember.  
  
Maysilee's face appears, and I stare up at her. She's clean and scrubbed, and her long, golden hair falls around her face in soft waves. I don't say anything out loud, but in my head, I promise her that this isn't the end. That I will remember her face. That I will make them pay for what they did to her. And that if anyone ever says we were "only friends," I will tell them that the word "only" does not apply to someone like her. Ever.  
  
She vanishes from the sky, and the anthem ends.  
  
I'll have to hunt Filigree, and I'll have to kill her. I was willing to die for Maysilee because it seemed like the right thing to do, but I don't have any compunction about outliving Filigree. She betrayed Beech and slit his throat. She probably murdered those little kids that Maysilee wanted to leave food for. I'm all right with it.  
  
I try to get up to go to war. I can't keep any of my promises to her if I don't get out of this arena.  I make it to my feet, but stumble backward. The world is spinning. There is a big lump on my head from where I hit the rocks.  
  
I know better than to try and work around a concussion. They'd love it if I died from my brain swelling. They'd probably think it was funny. If I can get past Filigree, on the other hand, they'll have to take me back to the Capitol and fix whatever is wrong.  
  
I lurch over to a rock and sit down at the edge of my cliff. I will wait until I'm a little bit steadier. It will be hard to hunt at night, anyway. I won't sleep. There's no one left to wake me up and check to see that I'm still alive.  
  
I can feel the electricity of the forcefield here. It's got to be pretty strong. The rock I threw at it maintained a little charge.  
  
I briefly consider my original idea of blowing the entire arena. It would be satisfying to burn something of theirs to the ground. Reluctantly, I decide that I don't have the equipment for it and I don't know enough about electricity. More to the point, they'd execute me for treason the second it blew, and name Filigree the victor before I had a chance to get anywhere. The audience wouldn't like it. They don't like it when the Gamemakers kill people directly, and they'd barely tolerate it for the final fight. But I figure they'd decide it was the lesser of two evils. Letting me be a victor and _then_ executing me would go over even worse.  
  
Dead people don't overthrow governments, so I can't do it. Not now.  
  
But the forcefield is good for something. It has to be. I didn't drag Maysilee all the way out here to be killed by mutts only to find something useless.  
  
My stomach gives a lurch, and I lose what little food I had put into it today.  
  
I make myself eat more, as soon as my stomach settles. It will be bad enough going into it with a headache. Going in on an empty stomach as well would just make it worse.  
  
Something thuds to the ground in front of me. I don't even recognize it at first. I haven't seen one up close, after all.  
  
A parachute.  
  
Curiously, I reach over. Open it. Inside is a cold-pack (battery operated, so it will self-regulate rather than just warming up until it's useless) and a little package with two painkiller pills in it. The cold pack has cartoon directions for what to do in case of a concussion.  
  
This late in the Games, it must have cost a fortune to send anything, let alone something so big and useful. I guess Drake was saving up my sponsor money after all.  
  
I take the pills and secure the cold pack against the bump on my head with the little strap it has. I probably look dumb, but it's already starting to help. I don't even know who to thank. This is more than anyone I know could afford, and I'm not in the mood to thank rich Capitol sponsors right now. They could have sent something to make Maysilee happy days ago. She told them exactly what she wanted.  
  
I sit here at the end of the world, staring at the invisible forcefield, and at the nighttime world beyond it. It's a starry summer night out there, meant for sitting around a campfire. In here, it's ice cold, and an unpleasant wind is ruffling through the ugly dry grass. I get the blanket. It smells like Maysilee. There is too much of it to use alone.  
  
I throw it away. It goes over the cliff. I hear it sizzle when it hits, but it doesn't come back. I go to look and see if maybe they turned the thing off, but of course, they didn't. The vagaries of the air currents and the electrical fields just pick the blanket up and toss it around. It billows and floats from place to place, like a ghost in a badly illustrated book.  It's too light and spread out to get the momentum to bounce all the way back. Eventually, it gets caught on a rock and pressed against the forcefield.  
  
Electricity sparks over it, and it catches on fire.  
  
I watch until it burns out.  
  
I'll throw Filigree into the forcefield.  
  
It's that simple. I don't think I can get a good advantage if I'm attacking. She's as good at defending as I am, and she's as quick as I am. If we end up in an actual fight that lasts more than a few seconds, she's stronger than I am and she'll win. But if I can get her up here, she'd have no idea what's here. She'd be careful of the cliff, sure, but I think maybe I could knock her off balance if I feinted just right, especially if I can manage to do a little bit of damage before we get here.  
  
Her eyes. If I could interfere with her vision, it would be easy to throw her over. Lacklen is always tripping over things because one eye is worse than the other and his depth perception is terrible.  
  
I am not ignorant of the fact that I am sitting here contemplating methods of murder. I can even accept that, in doing this, I am doing what they want me to do for now. I doubt Filigree is having long thoughts about the subject, either. She's probably mentally picking out furniture for the house they'll give her after I'm dead.  
  
I don't care about the house, and certainly not about the furniture. I don't really care about Filigree one way or the other, and if I didn't have to kill her to get out of here and keep my promises, I wouldn't go out of my way for it. I am morally satisfied that I'm only doing what I need to do.  
  
I keep the cold pack on until sunrise, then put it in my bag. There's not really a reason to do this, since I don't plan on taking my bag with me -- one way or another, I won't need it anymore -- but it's become a habit to not leave a trail to my hideouts. The bump on my head has shrunk considerably, and the headache is far off. The dizziness is gone. I don't feel _good_ , but I can function.  
  
I eat breakfast slowly. There's plenty of food left. Maysilee and I have been careful. I zip the backpack up and hide it behind the rock I sat on. I only take my knife and the blowtorch, which can tuck into what's left of my belt.  
  
I go back to the hedge, back through the gate we made, and start hunting.  
  
I have a feeling that the Gamemakers will make this part easy. They always do. The audience doesn't want to watch the last two tributes stumble around each other in circles. I think I'll pretty much just have to wait until the television viewing day begins in the Capitol… if they haven't been up all night watching exciting recaps of everyone else dying, that is.  
  
At first, I'm stymied. The volcano is sputtering again in the distance, and there's a fire somewhere, but nothing seems close. Nothing seems to be forcing me in a particular direction.  
  
Unless she's hunting me, she's likely in the little meadow… but what are the chances that she's not hunting me? And besides, I can't remember exactly where the meadow was. It's down the hedge a ways, then into the woods, but… I'm just not sure.  I was paying attention to what was ahead of us, not to where we'd already been.  Maysilee would probably know.  She probably had it all worked out.  
  
I stalk through the woods not far from the hedge for what must be an hour, looking for any sign of Filigree. I'm sure I'd be doing better at it if I'd gone into the woods and learned to track, but I never did, so I'm stuck with my less than stellar skills at this part.  I'm sure the audience is getting bored.  
  
I do what I always do when I get lost.  I start to climb a tree for a wider view, but I remember that this close to the hedge, I can't climb very high, so I turn away from the hedge and go deeper into the woods. When I'm in a bit, I find a small rise, and climb a tree on top of it. I can see to the hedge now, but not the land beyond it. That's okay. Filigree doesn't know about that yet, so she's not there.  
  
I look out over the forest. I can see the fire now -- it's burning around the base of the volcano, contained in an unnaturally straight line. It's just blocked off. There are a few bald spots in the canopy of the forest, two of which are in the direction of the little meadow. I focus that way, looking for the movement of leaves, sudden flights of birds, anything to tell me she's there. I don't see anything. Maybe the viewers aren't awake yet and the Gamemakers are postponing the fight. Or maybe I'm a really bad hunter.  
  
I hear a crackling sound below me, and think for a minute that they've set the tree on fire, but they haven't. I can't imagine what it is… until the trunk starts to crack.  They must have dried it out suddenly, desiccated it, made it brittle.  
  
The tree comes crashing down. I manage to jump clear of it somehow, a feat I don't think I could accomplish with a year of practice if I tried. The crash can probably be heard for miles, and the whole canopy of the forest is shaking. A flock of mutt magpies bursts upward.  
  
They're making it easy now.  
  
For Filigree.  
  
I consider this carefully. I'm not trying to avoid the fight now, but I'd rather fight it on my terms than on hers. I may as well help them make it easy for her to find me. The sooner she does, the sooner it will be over.  
  
I take out the blowtorch and light a little fire in the greenwood, enough to send up smoke.  
  
Then I start heading back for the hedge.  
  
I light a fire every ten feet or so until I'm in sight of the gate Maysilee and I made. I pull a lot of the detritus around it so that it's not immediately visible.  It just looks like a pile of twigs left haphazardly around, like I made a shelter that blew down.  
  
I climb another tree, this time for cover.  
  
It takes Filigree longer than I expected to find her way here. Maybe she's careful as well as crazy, and knows she's being trapped. I'll have to be careful. I shift in my place to make sure my legs don't fall asleep, and that I have a clear jump to the ground.  
  
The sun is high when she comes into my view.  
  
The arena hasn't diminished her physically. She's still huge, and she looks strong and well fed, but whatever sanity she started with -- I'm not betting on much -- is long gone. When I first saw her in the tribute parade, she carried herself with arrogance, and in training, she was bombastic. Now, she's feral.  Her hair is wild and run through with twigs, even though it actually was braided before she came in.  She has painted her face with mud and what I try to believe is something other than blood.  She keeps tapping the tip of her tongue against her teeth, and her eyes are unnaturally wide.  
  
She smiles broadly, raising the axe she's carrying. "Come on out now," she says, staring at a rock I'm nowhere near. "Come on. I know you're… HERE!" She jumps behind the rock and brings the axe down on unfortunate thorn bush. She grinds her teeth, then starts hacking at the hedge, which I know isn't going to give much, but I hope it will tire her out.  
  
She spots a pile of twigs I left and says, "I see you!" The axe comes down, scattering the twigs.  She gives  a frustrated hiss and breaks up the rest of the pile.  
  
I decide to let her keep doing this, using up her energy and getting frustrated. In some other circumstance, it would be funny to watch her chopping up offensive plants, thinking each time that she's got me, but it's actually kind of frightening -- partly because she looks genuinely crazy now, not just mean, and partly because I wonder if I look exactly the same.  I am, after all, sitting up here in a tree, watching her wear herself out so I can kill her more easily.  
  
I examine the way she moves, the way she reacts to sounds in the woods. She's focused, and she can recover quickly from surprises. I won't have any advantage for long. I'm going to have to hurt her fast if I'm going to get her to the cliff.  
  
I wait for her to come close to the tree, hoping that she'll be close enough that I can actually land on her and slit her throat, but I think she's getting suspicious about where I really am. She doesn't come under any limb thick enough to hold a person. I'm going to have to fight her. There's no sense delaying it any more.  
  
I tense my muscles and drop down from the tree.  
  
I have less time than I thought.  
  
She's swinging the axe at me even as I land, and I have to crouch and roll to get away from her. I flick my knife out at her, but I don't find any purchase.  
  
I stand up across from her.  
  
She swings the axe again, but it's a wide miss. I dive behind the piles of twigs, grabbing a couple of handfuls as I go and throwing them at her to slow her down, not that it has much of an effect.  
  
She grins and secures her axe with both hands.  
  
_Little pig, little pig, let me in,_ I think crazily, crouching in my pile of twigs. Thanks to my preps and their magical shots, I have no hairs on my chinny-chin-chin to swear refusal by.  
  
She breathes heavily, staring at me through her strange, glassy eyes. "Just you and me," she says. "Come on. Try and take me."  
  
I swing the knife in a deliberately short arc, meaning to draw her in.  
  
She laughs. "Are you afraid to cut?"  
  
"Not anymore," I say.  
  
She charges forward suddenly, even quicker than I gave her credit for. The axe swings low. I move my foot instinctively, or I'd certainly lose it, and my life after it in short enough order. As it is, she shaves off the edge of my shoe, leaving it open.  
  
I've lived in ripped up shoes before.  
  
I run for the gate.  
  
Filigree tosses aside the twigs. They seem to barely slow her down. She tackles me, and I go flying away from the hedge. I barely hold on to my knife.  
  
She jumps on me and raises the axe. I do the only thing I can -- I swipe at her hand, crossing the veins of her wrist.  
  
I hope that will be enough, but it isn't. It's just a surface cut, and in the wrong direction. It does make her drop the axe. I take the opportunity to stab at her, and manage a deep cut across her thigh this time. She doesn't bother with me. She has to get to her weapon.  
  
While she scrambles for it, I get to my feet and run for the gate.  
  
That's when I am cut in half.  
  
At least it feels like it.  
  
The axe slams into the side of my abdomen, just above my hips, and bright blood splashes up from it. She pulls it out, and a something grayish pink trails after it. The pain is blinding and endless. and I don't know how I'm alive to see my own innards.  
  
I'm losing blood and I don't want to think about what's happening if she actually cut open any of the things hanging out of me, but if I can just kill her, just win, then they have to fix it.  
  
She is gloating, waiting for me to properly die.  
  
I hold the ball of my intestines that is trying to escape with one hand. In the other, I secure my knife. I don't have a chance at her heart, but I still have the forcefield. I still have an option.  
  
Using every bit of remaining strength that I can find, I rise up and drive the blade into her open eye.  
  
She screams.  
  
I drive it further, thinking vaguely that I can get to her brain, shut her down for good.  
  
But I'm losing my strength.  
  
She pushes me away and rips my knife from her face, taking most of her eye with it. She throws it aside.  
  
The wound bleeds profusely, blotting out her face. She still has her axe  
  
I run for the only thing I have left.  
  
I struggle through the gate. I can hear her lurching behind me, the wounds in her head and leg slowing her down, or I'd be dead already. My guts slither through my fingers, and I push them back as far as I can. I'm leaving a trail of blood behind me, and I can smell death coming up from inside my own body.  
  
I just need to make it to the cliff.  
  
There is no way I should be running. It is impossible that my legs are moving when everything inside me tells me that it's time to give up, that my life is running out of me. But I made a promise. I force myself to move, to struggle up the slight incline toward the cliff. She's weak now. If I can get her to try an attack, I can just step aside, let her fall, and hope I outlive her.  
  
I trip over a rock and go sprawling. More of my intestines bubble out of the wound in my gut. I can hear her coming again, closer than she should be. She even seems to be gaining strength.  
  
I just need to get a little closer to the drop-off. Just a few more feet.  
  
The world narrows to the agonizingly slow movement across the last stretch of land. I can see it. I remember standing here yesterday, laughing, like I'd found a great prize. Now, it's my only hope, and I can see it for what it is… desperation.  
  
Around me, I can see the shadows creeping in. Filigree and I are on a lonely lit island in an increasingly dark sea around us, where bloodthirsty ancient gods await us.  
  
I push myself up, hoping she'll think I mean to make one last stand. She can't be seeing very well, even out of the eye that's still in her head.  
  
I can't quite get to my feet.  
  
I look up at her.  
  
Under the mask of blood, she smiles, and raises her axe.  
  
The world closes to a pinpoint of light, and in it, I see her empty eye socket.  
  
It is the last thing I will see.  
  
The pain doesn't stop, even as I lose consciousness. The last thought in my mind is, _I lost._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Haymitch begins to recover in the Capitol, he learns that his resolutions in the arena may be more complicated than he thinks to keep.

**Part Three: Endgame**

  
  
**Chapter Nineteen**  
When the cannon goes off, I assume I'm dead. No one ever came back to talk about it, so maybe your brain hangs on for a few minutes, trying to figure out what's happening now that it can't control its body. I _hope_ it's only a few minutes, anyway. I think of the big graveyard outside of town, and hope that I won't lie there under the dirt, feeling my body rot away, not able to do anything about it or tell anyone that I feel it. Or maybe they'll cremate me and I won't even be able to scream. I don't have any way of knowing that's not what happens.  
  
Or maybe I'm a haunt, like in the stories. Maybe I can get up from my body now and float around.  
  
It would be a relief, because the pain in every part of me is like an inferno. I try to get up, but my body tries to come with me, and I don't want it. It's too heavy and it hurts too much. But I can't get away from it.  
  
I'm not a haunt, then. There are probably no such things.  
  
Something firm and warm presses against my chest, then there are words: "Be as still as you can, Haymitch. Don't try to move."  
  
Something jabs me in the neck, near where the pink bird stabbed Maysilee, and suddenly, I can see. There is a young man leaning over me, his hand on my chest. He smiles. "You've won. You're a victor."  
  
I cough, and blood pours out of my mouth. I feel it spill over my face, and I understand that I'm alive, that somehow, the cannon went off for Filigree.  
  
Pain tears through me, worse than anything, as my stomach muscles clench from the cough.  
  
"Be still, be still!" the Capitol medic orders. I hear him yell, "Immobilize him, you idiots!" and then there is a time that's gray and red. At least twice, there are moments when it is black and I am locked up somehow, drowning, and then things are sucked out of me and poured back in, and I am just a candle mold, being emptied and filled with whatever they want.  
  
I'm aware of voices sometimes. One is demanding a victor, berating doctors for letting me stay asleep. It's bad enough that I'm the victor, but I can't even properly finish the Games. It's been two weeks. This voice doesn't come often. More frequently, there's a soft, high voice, telling me that she's spoken to my mother and my girl and promised them that I will be all right, and asking me to please not make a liar of her. Sometimes, there's a high, nervous man's voice, talking about things I don't understand. The most usual voice is a low, deep one that just tells me stories.  
  
It is this voice that's droning on when I open my eyes at last.  
  
Chaff is sitting in a chair beside my hospital bed, and Seeder is standing at the window. At first, they don't notice that I'm watching them.  
  
"Snow's not going to wait much longer," Seeder says. "He'll pull the poor child out of the hospital and put him on a stage."  
  
"Well, he's going to have to put up with it." Chaff shakes his head. "The boy took an axe to the gut. If the girl hadn't died instantly when that axe hit her, she'd probably be getting fitted for an electronic eye right now… if she'd made it after the blood loss. Snow's lucky he had a victor at all, and Beetee's not sure this one's out of the woods even now. He's only alive because he's a stubborn little cuss. He's not going to go out stepping with the sponsors any time soon."  
  
Seeder turns to say something, and smiles instead. "Well, he may at least be able to say hello to them soon." She perches on the footboard of the bed and touches my foot through the blanket. "How are you feeling, honey?"  
  
Chaff looks surprised. "How long have you been awake?"  
  
I want to answer, but when I try to speak, my throat is nearly closed up, it's so dry. Seeder picks up a glass of water with a bent straw, and hands it to Chaff. "Can you manage this for him?" Chaff rolls his eyes, and uses the stump of his missing hand to swivel the straw in my direction. "I'll go get a doctor. Tell them he's with us. But I'll make sure they know he's in no shape for the show."  
  
She disappears.  
  
I finish drinking. My stomach feels like it's full of broken glass. I try to raise my hand to point, but it's very heavy. I just wave my finger back and forth between Chaff and the door and manage, "Why…?"  
  
"Why are Seeder and me with you?" Chaff guesses.  
  
I nod.  
  
"Well, it's our turn," he says. "Gia's taking her time to sleep, but she'll come running as soon as Seeder calls her. Beetee had a few business meetings. As long as they haven't finished the Games -- which happens when you have your last interview with Caesar -- the mentors can stay in town."  
  
I can't speak very loudly, so I signal him to come close and whisper, "Drake?"  
  
"Well, Albinus had some business that he had to do in District Two," Chaff says. "I imagine he'll wander back to town when you're ready for the cameras. Meanwhile, I figured I'd watch over you, seeing as you and my boys were allies."  
  
I frown.  
  
"Oh, I know," he says. "You got split up at the Cornucopia and they didn't find a rendezvous point, so it never worked out, but I still have those alliance papers we signed. Good thing, too, since I could help the lovely Miss Pepper watch your station now and again while Albinus was having a rest. And ask my sponsors if I could re-direct their gifts when you needed something. Beetee was glad to have those papers, too. He was sorry the alliance with Sigh didn't last longer than it did."  
  
I don't know that I could say anything even if I could properly speak. Chaff sent me the parachute? And forged my name on some kind of alliance? I know that sometimes when people make allies in the arena, their mentors sign some kind of deal for a set-up that hadn't been planned (they've shown it on the Games coverage) but I've never heard of them making up a prior arrangement when nothing has appeared in the arena. I have no idea why they'd do such a thing, especially since I bolted from the Cornucopia without a second thought about Huller and Cotton, and only ran into Sigh Tomby by chance.  
  
"Why?" I ask again.  
  
He shrugs. "We liked you, and you were in some trouble with that concussion. Our boys were well past caring, and our sponsors were more than happy to let us share."  
  
A spasm goes through my belly, and I can't concentrate on the conversation anymore. A doctor runs in, and something is shot into me through a tube in my arm. I drift numbly for a while, though I don't go back to sleep.  
  
Somewhere in my drifting, Chaff and Seeder go off, and Gia Pepper comes in. She looks as put-together as she did before the Games. For some reason, I find this remarkable. She may even be wearing one of the same dresses she wore during the lead-up. It seems strange to me that a dress is still there and Maysilee and Gilla and Beech aren't, but I'm not angry.  
  
She checks me and decides I'm not responsive, but smiles at me and gives me a kiss on the forehead. "That's from your mom," she says. "I just talked to her."  
  
I can't quite bring myself up from whatever they gave me to answer, but I do manage to twitch my mouth in what I hope she takes for a smile.  
  
She sits down beside the bed, kicks her high heels off, and starts reading a magazine.  
  
I continue to drift. In the drugged daze, everything seems far away. District Twelve, the arena, even Maysilee, though she's closer than the rest. I remember hunting Filigree, but I can't connect that to myself. Did I really put a knife in a girl's eye? I know I did, and I know that when I wake up, I will see it in my mind more clearly, so I am not in a hurry to wake up.  
  
It's sunset when Gia gets up and puts her shoes back on. She comes to my bedside and gently pushes my hair back. "I have your girl's token," she says. "And Maysilee's, too. I'll take care of them until you're ready to go. I wouldn't want anything to happen to them."  
  
"Thank you," I say, or try to say. It comes out more as "Thoo."  
  
She seems to understand, because she says, "You're welcome. You get some rest now. Visiting hours are over, but Beetee will be here first thing tomorrow, and I'll be in at noon. I have to meet with Caesar in the morning and let him know how you're doing. He's been very worried, too." She kisses my forehead again and leaves. She's wearing a lot of lipstick, and I imagine that there's a mouth mark on my face, but I don't have the strength to reach up and wipe it off.  
  
The room starts to get dark around me. A nurse comes in to check my vitals and asks if I want the lights on. I shake my head (talking seems like too much trouble), but after she leaves, I wish I'd told her to turn them all on, full blast, and never let them out again. The room isn't pitch black. There are little lights at the bottom of the bathroom door, and I can see the faint glow of city lights around the edges of the window blinds. A grayish line of light on the ceiling expands and contracts somehow, and there is a light on the button that calls the nurse, though in my pain and drug-addled brain, I am convinced that it's a trick, that I'll press it and gas will come hissing in through the vents to kill me for not healing fast enough.  
  
The darkness seems full. I don't see anything. The shadows don't take shape. But I am completely sure that the tributes I killed are here with me. Donnell Moran, blood pouring from his throat. Crispus Bidwell, back to return my knife from where it got jammed in the flesh of his throat. Filigree Simms, axe raised, ready to finish the job she'd started so well, so she can pick up her new eye and go home at last. I know that the knife I jammed into her head is here somewhere, her eye an amorphous bit of red-gray jelly on the tip of it.  
  
And Maysilee. She's here as well, with the others. If she hadn't come back to find me, if I'd made her stay with me, or gone with her… I feel her close by, mad with pain, her blowgun raised. They must have taken it up with her. It was in her hand, the one I wasn't holding, while she thrashed her life out on the hillside.  
  
I feel them all in the shadows. They almost seem to block the lines of light under the doors. They're coming closer. A warm, soft breath caresses my cheek.  
  
I scream, and it clenches the muscles in my belly, pulling them tight around the wound, causing everything else to be wiped out with the pain of it. The lights do come on then, and the medical team rushes around me, needles out, trying to find a part of me still enough to inject.  
  
I keep screaming until someone actually jabs me, and artificial sleep drags me under. It doesn't help. It just sends me back to the arena, to the hilltop by the forcefield. They're all there, the ones I killed, the ones who had to die so I could live. Sigh Tomby, his face melting, crawls toward the drop-off. Huller and Cotton, triumphantly waving our alliance papers, burn up in a river of lava. Gilla staggers toward me with one arm cradled in the other. I know she expects me to put it back on, and I don't know how.  
  
I feel a pebble hit me in the shoulder, and I know when I turn, it will be Maysilee, and it is. She is covered with blood, her chopped off hair scarlet with it. She opens her mouth, and it's deep with sharp teeth. Then all of them are on me, swarming over me like the squirrels, and the world is pain and blood and tearing, and I can't wake up.  
  
Finally, it's all black and smooth again. When I wake up this time, there is pain, but it's not as bad. My stomach has fresh bandages, and there are two tubes going into me. There is also one coming out, but I'm trying to ignore it.  
  
I recognize the man in the room with me right away. It's hard to not recognize President Snow. He's on television a lot.  
  
"Don't worry about standing up," he says. "I'll let you stay down, just this once. You should be feeling a bit better."  
  
"A little."  
  
"They missed a pocket of infection," he says. "That's why your previous recovery was so slow. The doctor has been let go."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"This is what's going to happen," Snow says. "You will continue to recover under more competent care. The damaged part of your intestine has been replaced, so it's largely a question of healing the incision now, which is being aided by steroids on my orders. By next week, you should be prepared to participate in the closing ceremonies. The people have been kept waiting long enough."  
  
I feel an absurd urge to apologize, but it's not hard to fight.  
  
Snow goes on. "A television crew is waiting outside now. You will give them an interview, during which you will enthusiastically praise Capitol medical teams. This is well earned. They have repaired all external injuries, restored your voice, and cured you of an infection that certainly would have killed you, possibly within hours of when they discovered it. You will express interest in which house has been assigned to you in the Victors' Village. If you must, you may express a desire to see your family again, though I would advise against immediate mention of that skinny thing you're banging back home. The audience is rather invested in your relationship with Maysilee Donner, and she's a distraction from it."  
  
"She's my girl," I say. "My…" I make myself say it. It matters. "She's my wife."  
  
Snow wrinkles his nose. "There are no papers to that effect, no matter how good your allies here in the Capitol were at forging other papers." He shrugs. "I knew about _that,_ of course. Quite unfortunately, the Games were between a seditionist and a complete lunatic. Bad planning by my Gamemakers. Some will need to be… replaced." He shakes his head impatiently. "At any rate, I decided not to put a stop to it. You, at least, are somewhat rational. You will recognize your own interests."  
  
There are still a few too many painkillers running through my system for my brain to go entirely on alert, but it sends up a feeble flare. "My interests?"  
  
"Caesar has been given a set of questions to ask you. You will not expand on your answers. You will not refer to anything that hasn't been asked. And once you have seen the highlight film that will be released to the general public, you will never refer to anything that happened in the arena that is not preserved in those highlights."  
  
"What are you going to do about it if I do?"  
  
He smiles at me, amused. "My dear boy, I can do anything I like. For today's interview, though, let me stress that it will not be aired live, and if you say something untoward, it will reach no one except me. And if it reaches me…" He sighs. "Pelagia Pepper has a great deal of debt from her time in university. I don't know how well she'd fare if she were to lose her job for mis-preparing her victor. She could even end up in debtors' prison. That would be a shame, don't you think?"  
  
He tips his hat slightly and goes out the door, leaving me alone to think about it. It's about as direct a threat as he could give. And I understand that he completely means it. If I don't behave myself, Gia Pepper -- who has been nice to me and sat by my hospital bed and done absolutely nothing wrong to anyone -- will end up in prison. I wonder what he could do to Chaff and Seeder if he's annoyed enough. They're victors, and I guess he couldn't just throw them in jail -- I guess he can't just throw me in jail, either -- but could he take away their teams? Do something to their families?  
  
I'm not sure how to get past this. If anyone had told me two months ago that I'd be considering holding my tongue for the sake of a silly Capitol woman who spent money she didn't have and got herself in trouble over it, I'd have thought they were crazy, but it's true. The idea that I could send this perfectly nice human being to jail actually does make me decide to behave. For now. I will get nowhere in my plan to take down the Capitol if I send up red flags before I know what I mean to do, anyway.  
  
My preps come next -- Fabiola, Igerna, and Medusa -- along with a nurse who unhooks me from my tubing so I can get into a barber's chair that they wheel in. The preps clean me carefully around the bandages, and Medusa washes my hair. It feels good to be out of bed and clean, though I have to move slowly to keep the pain away.  
  
Finally, they get me into a soft pair of pants and a shirt that hides the bandages, then make me up for the cameras. I'm moved to a large armchair near the window.  
  
"You'll do fine," Medusa tells me. "Caesar is very anxious to see you. We're so glad you won!" She pinches my cheek. She actually does this.  
  
They disappear, and the camera crews come in. While they set up by the bed -- it will be invisible in the shot -- Caesar Flickerman himself comes over in his midnight blue suit. The little lights aren't twinkling at the moment, but I'm sure they will by the time the film rolls. He pulls up a stool and sits across from me.  
  
"We almost lost you," he says.  
  
"You _did_ lose everyone else."  
  
"I know. Don't worry. I won't ask about them today. Are you sure you can do this?"  
  
"No choice."  
  
He doesn't look surprised. He reaches into his pocket. "Pelagia gave me this to give to you," he says, and pulls out the knotted indigo string that I wore through the arena. It looks faded from all the soakings it took, but it's in one piece. Caesar holds it out to me.  
  
I take it. I stare at it for a long time before I put it on.  
  
I look up at Caesar. "The president told me that you're only supposed to ask certain things. That I can't say anything about anything else."  
  
"Don't worry. It's harmless stuff. Softballs. And then, I'm going to take you outside, and we'll show you enjoying the Capitol a little bit. Quiet things, of course, and a doctor will be right there. People just need to see you. There's a rumor around in the districts that you didn't make it. Snow hasn't been able to stop it."  
  
"My family knows better, right?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Gia's been on the phone with them every day. I talked to them myself. I sent your brother some glasses. I know you meant to do that later, and you can get him a better pair, but I thought he should be able to see you. I hope you don't mind."  
  
I shake my head. I don't know why Caesar Flickerman would send Lacklen glasses, but the idea that he can see is the first good thing to cross my mind in days. Weeks, maybe. "Thank you," I tell him.  
  
He nods and looks over his shoulder at the camera crew, then leans in to speak quietly. "I know you've seen terrible things," he says. "And I won't lie -- you're going to see more. But there are good things, too. Don't you forget that, Haymitch. There are good things."  
  
"Everything's ready, Mr. Flickerman!" a technician calls.  
  
"Are _you_ ready?" Caesar asks me again.  
  
I nod. "Sure. Let's do it."  
  
Caesar presses a button on his cuff and his suit lights up. As if it's also attached to the switch, his face breaks into the big smile that he uses for the show. "Hello, Games fans! I'm coming to you from the recovery ward with this year's victor, Haymitch Abernathy. He'll be up and about for closing ceremonies in no time. Tell me Haymitch, how do you feel?"  
  
On a far screen, I see my face come up. I think about the nightmares and the pain and the kids dying around me. Then I think of the living. I think of Gia Pepper in debtor's prison. I force a smile. "Well, I still hurt a little, but the Capitol doctors are great…" I praise them for a little while. Snow is right about that. They deserve it. The axe wound is healing, I have no scars, and they've even grown me a new earlobe. I have no idea how they did that.  
  
As Caesar promised, the questions are soft. What kinds of food would I like to be eating (nothing right now, since my stomach hurts; I think about bringing up the carrot cake I promised Maysilee I'd have, but I guess that would be outside the scope), what I'd like to see in the Capitol, as long as I have some recovery time (I have no idea, but Caesar brings up a few things I can latch onto), and if there's anyone I want to thank (the doctors again, and Gia, and my preps).  
  
"And your sponsors, of course!" Caesar says jovially, giving me a warning glance.  
  
"Oh, yeah," I say. "I'd have been a goner without the ice pack." I stop, wondering if the ice pack will make the highlight reel, and if I've already broken Snow's rules. No one rushes in to stop me, though, so I guess that much is all right.  
  
Caesar lobs a few more softballs my way, then calls the interview to a close. He orders his camera people to get set up for the next part.  
  
"You did fine, Haymitch. I wanted to surprise you with a call from your family, but it didn't work out technically. While we were talking, it came through on my earpiece. Your mother sends her love, and says to not overwork yourself."  
  
"She should talk," I mutter.  
  
Caesar smiles fondly, and I get the impression he really has been talking to Mom, and knows what she's like. "Now, it's not usual for victors to have a tour of the Capitol -- I'm sure you've never seen it -- but I thought you could do with some air, and… I must admit, I convinced Snow to allow it by saying that it wouldn't hurt to show you enjoying it. You had a few moments in the arena that implied you were, maybe, not entirely devoted to us here."  
  
"Can't imagine why," I say.  
  
He grins. "Yes, well. Nevertheless, I think you actually _will_ enjoy our tour. But if you get tired, if it seems like too much, you call an end to it. You are still recuperating."  
  
I shrug. I'm not interested in touring the Capitol and pretending to enjoy it. On the other hand, the four walls of my hospital room are a little confining.  
  
Caesar pulls over a wheelchair and helps me into it. Five minutes later, he pushes me outside into the bright Capitol sunshine.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caesar Flickerman shows Haymitch the better side of the Capitol, but it doesn't last for long.

There is a car waiting by the door, but now that I am outside of the building, all I want is to _stay_ outside. I remember standing on the cliff, staring out at the stream beyond the forcefield, and all of that longing for a world outside of the Games comes back to me.  
  
I look over my shoulder at Caesar. "Could we walk for a while?"  
  
He glances at my doctor, who has a wary look in his eyes but nods anyway.  
  
"I think we can walk, if we take it slow." He turns to his crew. "Camera two and sound two come along. Everyone else meet us at the first stop."  
  
They snap to it, piling equipment into the car. Caesar turns right, steering me out onto a long sidewalk beside City Circle. The camera and sound team he indicated -- a pair of almost robotic looking women with a gliding platform that hovers above the ground -- follow along beside us.  
  
It is a beautiful day, with high, wispy clouds in a bright blue sky. The colored glass of the Capitol shimmers in the light, and in the distance, I see the sparkle of the lake. It's high summer. I have been out of the real world for more than six weeks, and it feels strange to be back in it. I expect a flock of vicious mutts to emerge from every bush, and feel like the random people out on the street might attack at any moment. A pigeon of the perfectly ordinary sort looks up at my wheelchair as it approaches. It seems annoyed at the disturbance, and only flies away when we're nearly on top of it. I follow its flight up toward a greenish building that shimmers in the sun like old copper.  
  
_All of this is built on blood_ , I tell myself sternly, but it doesn’t make it any less beautiful. I'm not even sure it's true. The Games are definitely part of the culture here (the Games museum is on the far side of the circle from where Caesar is pushing me right now), but I don't know how much of the city they actually _built_ , or even how much of it comes from the districts. I remember going to fish my dad out of Murphy's pub once when I was about seven and finding him in a huge brawl, because he'd tried to explain to some guy he worked with in the mines that the Capitol did actually have its own resources, and not everything came out of the districts. This is not a well-received notion at home, but, as Dad told me drunkenly while we walked back, blotting at the blood pouring from his nose, it's a plain fact.  
  
"Where are we going?" I ask Caesar.  
  
"The library, for starters," he says. "There's someone there waiting for you."  
  
"My mom?"  
  
"No. I'm sorry, but she doesn't have permission to come to the Capitol. I wish it were her. She's a very nice woman. I've enjoyed our talks on the phone."  
  
"Do you think they could grow her new lungs, the way they grew my new earlobe?"  
  
"Probably," Caesar says, then sighs. "I wouldn't count on it, though, Haymitch. There's a long waiting list from the districts, and even being a victor's mother doesn't move you up it very fast."  
  
"Can we start working on getting her on the list?"  
  
"I'll do what I can," he says carefully, and I realize that he doesn't think I have a chance. Of course not. I screamed that I was going to get out of the arena and start killing people.  
  
And besides, all of this has to go. This is…  
  
But I can't work up the same cold anger I had in the arena. There's anger, yes. But they _could_ cure Mom. If I took a cure from them, would they own me? And if they cured my mother, could I really want to tear it all down?  
  
A bunch of little kids are playing on the plaza, some kind of game with ribbons and music. People are scuttling back and forth to their jobs. It's the same as District Twelve, except with more money and sillier clothes. A few of them stop to look at our little entourage going by, but they don't bother us. They must be used to Caesar Flickerman and victors here.  
  
I suddenly understand the point of this little trip. Caesar knows what I said. Caesar's job is to make me not want to start a war. I would do well not to forget that the man is smart. Snow's threats seem clumsy and ridiculous. The walk through the lovely afternoon, with Capitol people going about their business, on the other hand…  
  
I decide not to open up to Caesar any more. He's a little too good at his job.  
  
Just before the Circle starts curving in toward the president's mansion, Caesar veers us onto a wide, tree-lined promenade, flanked by fancy houses. These aren't spun glass marvels like the skyscrapers and tall apartment buildings. They're old stone houses, many with colored glass doors. A little kid runs down from a porch and points at me. He smiles. I smile back, then remember that he was probably rooting for me to kill people a few weeks ago.  
  
_No one taught him any better_ , Mom says in my head.  
  
I ignore it. Some things shouldn't need to be taught.  
  
The promenade is a long park, with traffic running on either side of it. Benches line the path, and about halfway to a huge stone building, Caesar sits the crew down and has my doctor check to make sure I'm all right. I expect him to interview me now, and ask me about all the things I like best so far on our walk, or what the Capitol has to offer to the districts, or something.  
  
Instead, he just sits down on a bench across from me. "How are you holding up?"  
  
"Doctor says I'm okay."  
  
"I don't just mean your injury. I've known a lot of victors, Haymitch. A lot of them are my friends, and I hope you will be as well, as the years go by. But I know this is hard."  
  
"I'm not thinking about much," I say.  
  
He nods, as if he expects nothing else. "Let me give my crew a little rest -- that equipment can get heavy -- and then we'll move on."  
  
A few people approach us while we're waiting. The little boy from before comes up and asks Caesar for an autograph, then timidly asks me for one while Caesar is talking to someone else. He is pushing a stroller, where I half expect a doll to be, but he says it is his brand new sister, Maysilee, named after my friend. He apparently doesn't notice that I've snapped the pencil I'm holding in half, because he leans in conspiratorially and says, "Her name's _supposed_ to be Marcelina on papers, but we're always calling her Maysilee, even though it's a district name."  
  
I look at the baby, which looks like every other baby and does not even have blue eyes like Maysilee's.  
  
I can't think of anything to say.  
  
Caesar sweeps in and says the baby is just as beautiful as her namesake, but I'm awfully tired and need some space. He shoos the small crowd away.  
  
We get moving again. "I'm sorry about that," he says. "I should have realized that there would be some of that sort of thing. It always happens. That's one of the reasons Capitol law requires certain kinds of names and disallows others. Otherwise, everyone would name their children after their favorites."  
  
I still can't say anything. I don't know what to make of the idea.  
  
"Can you go on?"  
  
I nod.  
  
We head on down the promenade and finally reach the large stone building. The sign in front of it identifies it as the National Library of Panem. Caesar pushes me through an arch into a courtyard garden. A fountain in the center has twelve smiling children holding up a globe. The water bursts from what ought to be the north pole and comes splashing down on the children.  
  
Coins glitter in the water for some reason. I point to them. "Why is there money in the fountain?" I ask Caesar.  
  
He takes a few coins out of his own pocket and throws them in. "People toss them for luck," he says. "Or make wishes on them. The money is collected up every day, and it goes to the library." He looks at me awkwardly. "I suppose you think it should go to the districts."  
  
I shake my head. People's spare coins aren't going to fix the big problems at home, even if they're harvested every day, and I doubt any of the other districts are in better shape. "No. I don't." I reconsider, thinking about our puny little school library, which is all District Twelve has. "Maybe it could go towards libraries for the districts."  
  
Caesar gives me a fond laugh. "I like you, Haymitch. I really do hope you'll be my friend." He wheels me inside, where the rest of the crew is waiting, along with a man I only know from television -- the District Three victor, Beetee, who Chaff said had also steered money toward me, and sat with me while I was unconscious. It must have been a really late intervention, since he still had a tribute alive after Maysilee died.  
  
He smiles at me. "Hello, Haymitch. I understand you like to read." He raises his hand and I look up. The library goes up many stories, and they wrap around the central atrium. I can see the flickering of computer screens, and also shelves and shelves… miles of shelves… full of books.  
  
"How many?" I ask.  
  
"No idea," Beetee tells me. "And quite a lot of the rooms are restricted to people who have special passes, but let me show you around the places we _can_ go."  
  
He does. Caesar and the camera crews follow us, but they don’t bother us. Beetee has been most interested in the legal wing, which I am surprised is unrestricted, but I guess they don't mind people knowing all the things that are against the law. He also uses the technology wing, which is restricted, but he has a pass because he's a genius (though what he says is that "the Capitol thinks my brain is useful in that area"). I'm allowed into a vast cavern of literature, though there's no time to really go through it. Beetee shows me a book kept under glass that's so old it's actually on a scroll, in a language no one understands. But it's very beautiful. next to it is an old folio -- also in a language no one knows -- and a beautifully illustrated book, open to a page with the first letter decorated. Beetee identifies this one as being in a language called Latin, which a few people know, but no one speaks.  
  
It occurs to me that everyone I trained with speaks the same language -- English (or what Beetee calls, "What we call English at the moment; I should show you some other versions") . A few different accents, but no other languages. I wonder if anyone left in the world really speaks another language.  
  
We go into a room full of maps and globes, and Beetee spends time showing me maps of the world before the Catastrophes, and superimposing the current world on it. I know that District Twelve was in a place called Appalachia, but there's no such place on the map. The town hovers around places called Pennsylvania and West Virginia, though with the coastlines not matching up, Beetee can't be sure of exactly which place it's in. It turns out there are huge lakes to the north of us. I never knew that.  Of course, they're near District Thirteen, so they're probably radioactive.  
  
I could probably spend a long time here if I were allowed to, but of course, this whole day is about getting me on camera appreciating the Capitol. I'm afraid I've given them really good footage here.  
  
On the way out, I thank Beetee for the tour.  
  
He smiles. "Thank you for staying with Sigh at the end. He was a good boy, and he was very frightened. I'm glad he had an ally with him."  
  
We pack up and move on. Caesar guesses I'm not in the mood for the Mutt Zoo, though the camera crews want to go there. ("Don't mind them," Caesar says. "And don't fret too much about the zoo. The mutts can't help what they do, and they have to be somewhere.")  
  
We see the Museum of the In-gathering, with relics brought here from all over the world, whatever people could carry with them that meant something. A lot of the meanings are lost. Caesar makes a point of taking me to an area labeled "Scotland," which he says is where the Abernathy name comes from. He looked it up. There's a battered set of pipes, an even more battered blue flag, and a few old coins. There are pages from old books, showing men in skirts going into battle. None of them look especially like me.  Probably if I looked at them for a while, I could start seeing similarities, but again, we don't have time. There are also paintings of a rugged coastline, and a deep lake, and -- weirdly -- a kind of travel brochure that shows a giant water mutt. Nothing really tells me what it means that my name is from here, but it was nice of Caesar to do the research, so I make the right noises. I ask to see the Irish section, since Danny says most of the merchants are Irish, and I guess that means Maysilee was, too. I really don't know what that means. In this section, there's a good deal of green and a golden harp, and a lot of paintings.  
  
I don't really get anything from it, but I feel like I should have.  I feel like I should know more.  I decide to find books about Scotland and Ireland.  
  
After the museum, we go to a park. I am too tired to try and play any of the games I see kids my age playing, but I don't want to go back to the hospital, so I get my doctor to just let me sit under a tree and rest. I'm approached again by some autograph seekers -- one who says he's in my fan club and wants me to tell him what he should read next -- and Caesar decides I've had enough. My protests that I want to be outside have less of an effect on him than they had on my doctor, mostly because I'm starting to fall asleep in my wheelchair.  
  
They do bring the car around to take me back, but I'm out like a light before they get out of the traffic around the park.  
  
I'm woken up in the evening to watch the "recovery special," which has been cobbled together quickly. It's half an hour long, and seems to exist just to show everyone that I'm alive. It's the first really good look I've gotten at myself. I'm polished and clean and my hair is properly cut, but they didn't bother to hide the way my shoulder bones poke up under my shirt, or how my face seems pulled very tight over my cheekbones. I've starved before, but I never knew how bad I looked when I was in this state. No wonder people always looked away from me. At the end of the special, President Snow vows that "these long and trying Games" will conclude in the usual festivities at this time next week. He wishes me a speedy recovery.  
  
The next day, the tests start. I don't think this is usual, because no one seems to know what they're supposed to do. The tests themselves are puzzles and riddles, mostly, and a nervous man with a stopwatch keeps track of how long I take to solve them. This goes on in the afternoon for three days, and no one explains it. I guess I could make a stink about it, but now that I'm awake, that sense of boredom that got me into trouble in the arena is back. The tests seem harmless enough, and they at least fill the hours. There's nothing political about them. I guess it can't hurt anything to take them, though no one comes to tell me how I've done on them.  
  
In the evenings, Chaff comes and teaches me to play chess, which he has taken up as a talent now that he's a victor. He suggests I take it up as well, so we can just spend our time having long distance tournaments, but I don't like it as much as he does.  
  
"You know they're going to make you think of something," he tells me. "They have to have something they can interview you about."  
  
I think I could sufficiently annoy Drake by taking up poetry, but then I remember the way Hazelle Purdy made fun of my poems, and decide against it. I do have a hobby planned, of course. I plan to take down the Capitol. I'm not going to give the idea up just because it has a library and a museum -- well, lots of museums; I only saw the one -- no matter how well Caesar got to me. I don't think they'd like to interview me about that, though.  
  
Seeder suggests ballet, which Chaff and I both laugh at. The idea of me leaping around a stage wearing tights is self-evidently ridiculous. I can tell I'm healing, because laughing barely hurts, and I'm only on enough pain-killer to keep me going now.  
  
Exactly on Snow's schedule, my doctors declare me cured. I'm given orders to be careful and keep my physical activity to a minimum. Drake re-appears and kicks Chaff and Seeder out, though he himself doesn't seem to have much to do except preen for the cameras.  
  
They take me to Caesar's stage.  
  
It's the same stage that the interviews took place on, because the huge audience is gathered to view the final cut of this year's Hunger Games. I go up on a metal plate and I'm placed in the chair I've seen every year -- a red velvet thing with ebony arms, inlaid with gold and something white. The inlays make a pattern of grain waving in the wind.  
  
Caesar does an opening patter with the crowd, introduces Drake and Gia, then the official broadcast begins. I have to watch everything. The cameras will be on me, and if I do anything they deem camera-worthy, it will come up in a box for the viewers at home to see. No one needs to tell me not to cry. I saw one victor cry during the showing, and he was ridiculed for months.  
  
I steel myself. I have to know what story they've decided to tell.  
  
They begin with the never-ending Reapings. I see Maysilee pull herself away from Kaydi and Ruth. This all seems to be so long ago that it belongs in a painting on the museum wall -- the quaint folk customs of mountain folk. I see Gilla and Beech called, and I finally see myself, looking stupidly surprised. They do not show any of my friends reacting. On this stage, I see my quip about how stupid everyone is. Apparently, that's the hook. It is to be the slow breaking of my obvious arrogance.  
  
Once we're in the arena, they concentrate on my cold run into the woods, getting out of the way before the bloodbath starts. Of course, they do spend some time lingering on the bloodbath. It would hardly be worth buying the highlights without that. I get a close-up view of Filigree murdering Beech (she is obviously set up to be the second most important character), though, thankfully, I only get a quick glimpse of Sabinus Malton, who will die in the volcano, cutting Gilla with a machete. Maysilee's fight with Declan Denny is shown in full. All if it is more interesting than my long walk through the woods, apparently.  
  
They show me finding Sigh Tomby, and seeing his melted face, but the scene is cut short, implying that I just found out the water was poison and dumped him aside. After that, they cut to the Careers trying to take over at the mountain. They look like they're hunting other tributes, but they certainly couldn't have killed many. I'd place a bet that most of the hunting they're showing was actually for a safe water source.  
  
Though they seem to enjoy showing me dealing with butterfly stings, the first real "breaking moment" is the fight with the squirrels. They show this in loving detail, going right down to me throwing their carcasses away in atavistic horror. They do not show me plugging the mutt-ways after it. The point is to show me being attacked by tiny mutts with tiny brains, and almost losing.  
  
Maysilee figures out her blowgun. She's definitely being given a sympathetic treatment, even as they show her using it to kill several mutts and then, finally, Wyland Belcher.  
  
They spend a good part of time showing their fabulous volcano, which looks considerably more frightening up close than it did at a distance. Some of the kids were instantly vaporized. Others struggled away, burned and coughing, until they died. The five Careers who survived the blast survived it by sheer luck -- they'd had a falling out with Pomponia Graff, splitting the pack, and were re-grouping at a little distance from the mountain when it started to rumble. They all ran together for the end of the meadow. It was becoming clear that Filigree was going off the rails by this point, and the three boys who later found me broke away from the District One tributes as soon as they fell asleep and left the others on watch. Moonstone remained her hostage to fortune. He is portrayed sympathetically, even though we saw him kill several people at the Cornucopia.  
  
I know I can't flinch when the Career boys set on me, and I can't cry when Maysilee appears to save me. I don't.  
  
They show absolutely nothing of the long talks we had, though at one point, they show me asleep while she watches over me very tenderly. I have a feeling I know where this is going. They skip the magpie attack, and don't explain it when Maysilee appears with shorter hair. When we get through the hedge, it seems almost instantaneous. We go to the cliff, and she breaks our alliance. I don't look at her. I treat her like she's not there. I let her walk away, and I don't look back. I am busy solving my puzzle.  
  
Then she dies.  
  
They at least take the trouble to show me holding her hand while she slips away -- and that's what it looks like on the video, like she wasn't thrashing and seizing and in unbearable agony. I don't know how they did that. Nothing is shown of the wait afterward. They do a direct cut to her being lifted away, like there wasn't a big gap. I'm shown falling, but with no indication of what knocked me over. Arrogant boy -- loses his only friend, then trips and knocks himself unconscious.  
  
While I'm out, Kushi Rowe discovers the squirrels. He is weaponless, and they take him down quickly. When the cannon goes, Filigree takes it as a signal to get to the end. She turns on Moonstone. He fights back feebly, but he never had a chance. I think he knew that.  
  
Then they get to the fight that Filigree and I had. We are both acting like animals. The cocky boy has been sufficiently broken.  
  
I really don't know what happened after I passed out at the cliff. I can't understand why Filigree isn't here. All she needed do was come over and slam her axe into my head. Instead, she throws it. There is no reason at all for her to do this, unless she thought I was faking the convulsions to draw her in. The forcefield throws the axe back and it goes into her head instead of mine. The story ends with a picture of me convulsing on the ground, looking like all of my brains have leaked out with my guts. Broken completely.  
  
I say nothing. There is nothing to say. The audience doesn't seem to know what to do with it, either. Generally, even when the "bad guy" wins the Games, they try to make him look fierce and competent.  
  
President Snow comes out on stage. He smirks unpleasantly when he puts the victor's crown on my head.  
  
I meet his eyes. Glare at him until he looks away. Say nothing.  
  
I'm whisked off after the show to a banquet. Drake is in his element here, chatting up rich sponsors. A few of them want to meet me, but most seem a little repulsed by what they've just watched. Good. I don't want to talk to them, anyway.  
  
A boy comes up beside me at one point. He looks familiar. It takes a minute to recognize him as the boy who was serving the Gamemakers during my evaluation, the one who stared, gape-mouthed, at me after I took out the knife masters.  
  
He puts down a dessert I didn't ask for, then looks over his shoulder. Once he's satisfied that no one's listening, he whispers, "I saw everything." He holds up his hand. On it, there is a piece of paper, soaked through with sweat. It is a drawing of Maysilee's mockingjay, the ink starting to run. He puts his finger to his lips, then slips away, dropping the paper into a flaming dessert tray as he goes.  
  
I hope Snow eats that dessert.  
  
The banquet goes on into the early hours of the morning. My wound -- which is not entirely healed -- is starting to hurt. I can't find my doctor or Gia, so I ask Drake if I can get some pain medication. He tells me to man up. I explain that my _axe wound_ is acting up. He tells me to have a drink.  
  
The drink turns out to be a good painkiller, especially after four or five of them. I guess this will be cheaper than having them send me whatever they've been giving me in the hospital.  
  
Shots of me drunkenly lurching around the banquet are on television in the morning. Gia is back, and she is furious that they'd show such a thing, but Drake thinks it's hilarious. I am hung over when I go to Caesar's studio for my last interview, during which he studiously avoids mention of the previous night.  
  
I at least get a chance to praise Maysilee as she deserves… though I guess that coming out of the mouth of the Capitol's current running joke, it doesn't matter.  
  
Drake doesn't come to see me off on the train, and Chaff sends a note that he's not allowed, and he'll see me next year.  Gia barely makes it, and says they moved my departure on the schedule.  I'm pulled away from her. I see her talking to the train crew as I'm brought on board.  Further down the train, I can see other people boarding.  
  
On the train home, I watch more television. There are a lot of comedians making fun of my stumbling around. My gut hurts again. I decide, if they're making fun of me anyway, that I may as well hit the bar car and get the pain calmed down. Neither my mentor nor my escort is with me (the escorts never go home with tributes, and I guess mentors only do because they usually live there, too), so there's no one to stop me.  
  
I'm still pretty buzzed when we pull into the station in District Twelve.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch returns to District Twelve, and the victor's reception.

I wonder briefly if District Twelve is going to join in the general ridicule. It wouldn't be the first time. They were experts before the Capitol ever got its hands on me.  
  
But the crowd gathered at the train station is quiet, almost solemn. I know they have no choice about being here, so I don't pretend that most of them really care that I'm coming home, but they don't have to act as respectful as they are. There is a platform built up, and I can see my mother and brother sitting on an uncomfortable looking decorative bench. As soon as the train stops, a site producer runs in and tells me that I have to go out and greet the district before I say hello to them, but that it won't take long.  
  
"And there's one other thing. It shouldn't take long, either."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
The assistant shrugs. "Not sure. Some kind of new political appointment, I think. I guess she came on the train with you. We told your family that it would only be a few extra minutes." This fills me with dread, because there's no way this is accidental, but the producer apparently doesn't think anything of it. "Everyone here is so proud of you," she finishes with a perfunctory smile.  
  
I somehow doubt that, not after the last few days, but on further consideration, I guess they'd never show that to outsiders. After the camera crews are gone, I'm sure the real faces will come out.  
  
There is a bottle of whiskey on a low table that I've barely touched, and I almost take another shot of it before I realize that Mom will smell it on my breath before I have a chance to explain how they've cut down my pain medicine a little sooner than they should have, and it's just about getting my stomach to stop hurting until it finishes healing. She'll think of Dad first.  
  
I guess she probably already has, since I've been all over mandatory viewing. I'll have to make sure I explain it to her quickly.

I opt against taking a drink.  This wouldn't be a good time to look drunk.  
  
The door to the car opens, and a tall woman in a Peacekeeper's uniform comes in. She has reddish brown hair that comes down to her shoulders, and brown eyes roughly the size of dinner plates. She's painted up almost as much as a Capitol escort, with disturbingly red lips and falsely tanned skin. Looking at any individual part of her, I'd think she was beautiful, but somehow, altogether, the effect is unpleasant. This may have something to do with the whip that's curled up against her slip hip, or the way she's caressing it like a treasured pet.  
  
She notices me looking at her and looks back with a bemused sort of smile. Her eyes glitter maliciously. "I see you've already been drinking today," she says. Her voice is low, a kind of nasty purr. I envision her as a cat with her prey safely balanced on a sharp claw.  
  
"Who are you, and why is that any of your business?"  
  
"Lucretia Beckett," she says, and wrinkles her nose. "I'm the new Head Peacekeeper in District Twelve. Everyone here is my business."  
  
"What was wrong with our old Head Peacekeeper?" I ask.  
  
"Oh, the Capitol feels that, with a shiny new victor, District Twelve deserves someone with, shall we say, a somewhat higher status."  
  
"And you're real high class?"  
  
She doesn't answer, but gives me a flat, hard smile.  
  
The production crew comes to gather us a minute later. We follow them out onto the platform. Beckett stays a few paces behind me. Even a new Head Peacekeeper, apparently, is not supposed to interfere with the fuss made over a victor.  
  
The applause I get is muted, but I don't take it personally. District Twelve is not given to public displays of enthusiasm for anything. I’m brought up to a standing microphone (the same one Gia used at the Reaping, I think), and the producer whispers, "Keep it short. Just say hello and thank them for their support."  
  
The microphone goes on with a whine. I stare out at the sea of faces. Digger is up in the first row, but they haven't invited her to the stage. I smile at her. She smiles back.  
  
"I guess I made it home," I say. "I sure wish I wasn't alone. Beech and --"  
  
There is a loud whistle from the microphone and I step back. Lucretia Beckett looks at me with a warning in her eyes.  
  
I go back. "I'm glad to be home," I say. "Thanks for being here. And for supporting us."  
  
I leave the microphone again. There is not even perfunctory applause, though everyone is watching me intently. I will visit the Berryhills and the Donners later. Gilla didn't have any family. I don't know who to visit for her.  
  
Beckett steps up. She is between me and my family, and the production team makes it clear that I am not to make a scene that will interrupt her.  
  
She introduces herself, and again points out that she's been sent because of me. "With a new victor," she says, "District Twelve will find itself in the spotlight for all of Panem. We're going to work together here to make sure we give the best impression we can. I am here to make sure that everyone remains safe, and that the strictures and rules of District Twelve are enforced…"  
  
She talks longer than she needs to. I get the feeling that she's just doing it because she can see my mother trying to get up and come over to me, while production assistants on her side keep her sitting down.   
  
I can see down the tracks from here. There are three long boxes being unloaded from the train. I look away. Even looking at Beckett is better than looking at _that_. I didn't know they were on the train with me again. I'd have gone and sat with them.  
  
"…and we will see to it that the public areas of town are kept sparkling clean, and the streets are clear and easy to use…"  
  
I look across at Mom. She is struggling with the producers. I try to signal her by shaking my head, but it doesn't do any good. Lacklen, wearing the dark-framed glasses Caesar got for him, sees me and tries to calm her down.  
  
"…and of course, we will show what great assets the citizens of District Twelve are to Panem…"  
  
I look out at the crowd. Digger is watching me eagerly. I raise my hand slightly and show her that I'm still wearing her token.  
  
This goes up on the screens, and we get the first real applause of the day, mostly coming up from kids from school. It interrupts Beckett in the middle of a lecture about how our clothing is not appropriate for what is sure to be a media-filled year.  
  
She stops talking and glares at me.  
  
I don't try to make anyone stop.  
  
She tightens her jaw and looks back out at the crowd. When the applause stops, she says, "And we will also practice proper behavior toward public officials. In the meantime, it is clear that you want to welcome your victor back, and I won't delay you any longer."  
  
She gets applause, but I have a feeling it's just because she's leaving the stage.  
  
It's time for me to go to my family. I've wanted to see them for weeks, thought about them in the arena, wanted them to appear surprisingly in the Capitol while I was recovering. But now… now, it seems very large. Too big. There's no real thought in my mind that I'm aware of, just a strange certainty that I'm in a dream, that I'll run across the stage and hug my mother, and she'll fall apart in my arms, and I'll wake up by the cliff, next to Maysilee's body, waiting for someone to kill me.  
  
The producers let Mom up. I feel like I should be halfway across the stage already, but I can't do it. I can't seem to move my feet until the assistants on my side of the stage actually give me a nudge.  
  
Mom approaches me slowly, her face solemn. She's been ill again. I can see it in the planes of her face and in her sunken eyes. We meet in the middle of the stage, and she holds her hand out. Touches my cheek.  
  
"Haymitch," she says.  
  
I fold her into my arms, and she doesn't fall apart. She is the same as she ever was. She holds me tightly, and I feel the bones of her arms pressing against my back. Her hair, beside my face, seems thinner and grayer than I remember, but she's here. I close my eyes and say, "Momma."  
  
She does not cry. I do not cry. We are in District Twelve, and there are outsiders watching.  
  
She pulls away and takes my hands, and a few seconds later, Lacklen is there between us, beaming. I muss up his hair and ask him if he's been tough. He tells me that he hasn't been as tough as me. I hope he never has to be, but I don't say so. In fact, I tell him he can always hope.  
  
The cameras catch all of this, and it will be broadcast across Panem. I'm glad that I feel less buzzed than I did on the train. It would have been very bad if I'd drunkenly lurched into my mother's arms.  
  
We do not talk about anything important. That's a given. The producers ask foolish questions about how it feels to be back together ("Feels good," I say), then finally, we're led down to the road, and whisked off to the Justice Building.  
  
Once we get inside, we're given a few minutes to "clean up," by which it is clear they mean "actually say hello."  
  
Mom hugs me again, more genuinely this time. "Oh, honey," she says. "Oh, I’m so happy to see you. I know it must have been terrible."  
  
I'm not sure how to answer this. "Terrible" doesn't really cover it, at least not in the way I always used the word before, the way Mom uses it. But it's as close as I can come. "Yeah," I say. "I… I'm sorry about the things you must have seen in the arena."  
  
She shakes her head. "You did what you needed to, and you comported yourself better than most do. You were clever, and you stayed alive."  
  
I want to explain that I never wanted to kill anyone, that I dream about the knife I couldn't get out of Crispus Bidwell's neck, that Maysilee was thrashing and kicking when she died, but I don't even know where to start.  
  
I turn to Lacklen. "So, Caesar Flickerman said he gave you glasses."  
  
"Yeah, check them out." He pulls them off his face and hands them to me.  
  
I put them on, and the world jumps at me, twisted and distorted. I wonder if this is how Lacklen sees the world without them.  
  
"Shake them," he says. "It makes the whole world shake."  
  
I take them off and give them back. "I've had enough of the world shaking," I say.  
  
"Oh. Sorry."  
  
I look at Mom. "Is Digger coming?"  
  
She grinds her teeth. "They wouldn't invite her. I told them she was your family, too. She told them about the toasting… which, by the way, you are both far too young for…"  
  
"Mom -- "  
  
"But they treated her like a stranger. Like she was just a girl you happened to know."  
  
"Everyone kept saying you loved Maysilee," Lacklen tells me. "All the stupid interviews on the street. I said you loved Digger, but they never aired it."  
  
I want to say that I _did_ love Maysilee, that I loved her a _lot_ , but they'd hear it wrong, and it wouldn't mean that I don't love Digger, anyway. I can't think of anything to say about her. I want to tell someone everything, but I can't think who. Digger would listen, but she wouldn't understand, not really. It would hurt her.  
  
For the first time, I realize that there is no one in District Twelve who will understand anything I say -- about Maysilee, about the Games, about the Capitol, about anything. I feel acutely lonely.  
  
Mom seems to pick up on this. She takes my hand and says, "It will be all right, Haymitch." She looks at me, starts to say something, then shakes her head. "We'd best get cleaned up. The mayor will be waiting."  
  
We straighten each other up. I am going to buy Mom the prettiest dress I can find for her, once I get a chance to shop, but for now, she and Lacklen are both in borrowed clothes. A prep from the onsite team comes in to touch up our make-up, which I'm grateful for since Mom is very inexperienced with it and had applied it in a way that would have gotten her laughed at. My hair is duly shined up, and Lacklen is combed and cleaned.  
  
A producer comes in, carrying a velvet box. "We just got this from the cargo handlers," he says, and I think about the "cargo" they were unloading earlier. "Pelagia Pepper sent it along. It should have been given to you on the train, but you were… they said, indisposed. The Donners will be at the banquet. You should return it there."  
  
I take it. I know what it is, but I still take it in very carefully when I open the box. Sitting there, glowing against the black velvet, is Maysilee's mockingjay pin.  
  
The producer scurries off.  
  
Mom comes over and looks at it. "Are you all right?" she asks.  
  
I nod.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn't I be all right? I can return Maysilee's pin now. I'm sure the Donners will be glad to see it."  
  
She frowns.  
  
I bite my lip. "What do they think? Do they think I let her die? Did they play it like I didn't care? I did. Did they --"  
  
"Stop it, Haymitch," Mom says. "I was watching with them. I've held Mrs. Donner while she's cried. Lacklen and Indigo have been helping them around the house and helping the merchant kids keep the shop going for them. They're our friends, and they don't think you betrayed Maysilee."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"I promise."  
  
The producers come in a minute later and lead us outside, then down to the formal dining room -- the same room where we said goodbye in some other world. The fireplace where Digger and I did our toasting is going merrily, and the place has been cleared of cobwebs. The tables have been righted and draped with fine linens, and china and flatware almost as good as the Capitol's everyday ware has been set out.  
  
I see the Capitol liaisons here, and Mayor Hammond and his wife, and all of the production crews. The mine foreman is here and he greets Mom respectfully. The Berryhills are here, huddled around a table and looking out of place, though one of Beech's sisters gives me a watery smile. No one is here for Gilla. Apparently Sae does not qualify for an invitation any more than Digger does. I spot the Donners at a table by the window, and my heart stops. Maysilee is sitting there, lovely in a blue dress, her hair long and soft and untangled again, her china blue eyes weary but alive.  
  
She looks at me and breaks into tears.  
  
"Kaydilyn has been very upset," Mom says, stressing the name, and then I remember. I remember that this is not Maysilee. That Maysilee died on a hilltop full of scraggy plants and sharp grasses. This is her twin.  
  
I have to remember that.  
  
"I need to talk to them," I say.  
  
"I understand. Do you need me there?"  
  
I shake my head.   
  
I hold the little velvet box tightly and start to cross the room. Every step takes a very long time. I glance at the fireplace and imagine Digger kneeling there. I look over at a buffet table where several cakes have been set up and I see Danny. I take him for a hallucination at first, but he waves. He's in his whites, and I guess he's working the banquet. A server scoots across in front of me.   
  
A camera team tries to close in, but Mom swerves in front of them, and I hear her say, "Give him a moment's peace, will you?"  
  
I don't know if they listen to her or not. They should, when she's using that tone of voice. But I am focused on the Donners. Maysilee stands up and pulls over an extra chair for me.  
  
Kaydilyn.  
  
I sit down, and hold up the box. "Gia Pepper made sure to keep this," I say, and hand it to her.  
  
She takes it and opens it, then leans forward and cries into her skirt.  
  
I look hopelessly at Mr. and Mrs. Donner. "I don't… I… Maysilee was…"  
  
My words fail me entirely. I don't know how I'm supposed to talk to these people. What can I possibly say that will make anything any better at all?  
  
Mr. Donner looks as uncomfortable as I feel. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small cardboard box of his own. He hands it to me.  
  
It's pink and cheerful, with a little plastic window on the front, surrounded by cheerful looking children and daisies. Through the window, I see shiny reddish orange candies. Sarsaparilla candies.  
  
"You promised her you'd have some," Mr. Donner says. "I wanted to make sure you remembered."  
  
My hands start to shake, rattling the candies in their box. "I remember," I say.  
  
Kaydilyn reaches up and steadies my hand. "My sister was your ally," she says. "We're your allies now."  
  
I put the candy in the pocket of my suit jacket. I can't eat it. I can't talk. I don't dare open my mouth because I might start screaming. I squeeze Kaydilyn's hand and turn around to go back to my family.  
  
The film crew is standing there, recording it all.  
  
I stare at them.  
  
They stare back. I think the director is smirking.  
  
Something small darts in front of me, and it takes me a minute to recognize Lacklen. He spreads out his arms protectively and says, "Didn't my mother tell you to give him some space?"  
  
The director laughs and gestures to the crew to move away. I have no doubt that the cameras are following us even now.  
  
We pass a bar that's been set up and I grab a drink from it. I don't care. Let them see it.  
  
Lacklen picks it out of my hand and puts it back without commenting.  
  
We get to the head table, and Mom whispers, "You and I are going to have a talk later about…" She gestures at the bar. "Your daddy's son has no business in that poison."  
  
"It's just for the pain," I tell her.  
  
"Mm-hmm." She smiles at the camera and says quietly, barely moving her lips. "Next week it'll be for the memories and the week after that, because you don't like the weather. I know this song, Haymitch, and I'm not going to let you start singing it."  
  
There's no time to explain to her right now, so I don't say anything.  
  
Dinner is served. It's not as refined as anything in the Capitol, but they've made an effort to fancy up a lot of local dishes. I doubt any of it is derived from wild dog. There are heavy, solid breads from the bakery, with real butter from the butcher's. The centerpiece is chicken and dumplings, which I haven't had since Dad lost his promotion. It's delicious, and I wonder who they got to cook it. There's also a huge ham, and biscuits with gravy, and tureens of peas. No one can really afford to eat like this, but I guess everyone in the room recognizes it as home cooking, the kind of thing we _would_ make, if anyone could afford food.  
  
At the end of the night, Danny brings out an apple stack cake, the sort of thing that people sometimes have for weddings. Different families each bake a thin layer with some unique flavor, and then they're stacked together with apples and apple butter if they're around, wild berries and preserves in the more frequent case that they're not. This one, of course, is made with real apples, and I'm willing to bet that Danny baked every layer himself. There are other kinds of cake as well, though thankfully, Danny has chosen to ignore the existence of carrot cake tonight. I will get some from him later for Maysilee, but right now, I think I'd jitter apart at the seams if I saw it.  
  
I eat every bite that's put in front of me. This is partly because it's good, but mostly because if my mouth is full, I have an excuse for not talking to the people who keep coming up to me. The Capitol liaison wants to have a picture together. Mayor Hammond wants to give me a symbolic key to the city (certainly, it's not a real one; I doubt even he has one of those). Peacekeepers want my autograph and picture to send to their relatives back home. The mine foreman wants to say that I'm as clever as my daddy ever was. It goes on and on. I don't know any of these people, and they never tried to talk to me before.  
  
I guess a few people scared up money to support me, though most of them don't qualify for invitations. When it became clear that I had a chance, some of the people whose names I recognize from Maysilee's rebellious little group scrounged coins to send to Drake. They probably went in toward the ice pack, along with the donations from Eleven and Three. It couldn't have been much. Probably they meant it for Maysilee.  
  
At the end of the evening, we all sing the national anthem. The cameras are on me very closely for this. I am tempted to keep my mouth shut. Then I remember that I'm being watched. That Gia has debts. That Snow can do anything he pleases. I sing politely along.  
  
I just want to go home and sleep after this, but of course, the big event of the night is still coming, as far as the Capitol audience is concerned. In fact, it pretty much has to happen before I _can_ go home and sleep.  
  
Mayor Hammond calls me up to the front and turns on a huge video screen, which is showing the houses in the empty stretch of town known as Victors' Village. I can see the one with the huge tree that Duronda Carson hanged herself from. It's very pretty, and has a huge lawn around it. I hope they don't want me to move in there. Haunts might not be real, but that tree sure is, and I don't want to look at it through my bedroom window every day.  
  
"Welcome home, Haymitch," Hammond says, as though we've known one another forever and he's missed me. "You've come back, but you have a new home now. Along with your salary, you have been granted a home in Victors' Village." He brings out a key, smaller than the fake key to the city he gave me earlier, and says, "Would you like to find out which one it is?"  
  
"It's not Duronda's is it?" I ask, looking at the little red button he indicates on the key tag.  
  
He laughs. "Oh, I think we have enough unused houses there that we wouldn't have to do that!"  
  
I push the button.  
  
The house I've been given is about the middle of the way down the green, with a view of the forest. The fence passes at the back of the yard. It's made of brick, and has white-trimmed windows. There's a tree in the front yard, but it's not as big as Duronda's. There are gardens in back.  
  
I can't even associate it with myself.  
  
"Why don't we get you home to rest?" Mom prods.  
  
"Yes, yes!" Hammond says. "The house is being opened up and prepared by a team of domestics now! Are you ready to see your new place?"  
  
I nod. I can't work up much enthusiasm, at least until Mom starts coughing. When that happens, it dawns on me: Mom will have a solid roof over her head tonight. I have gotten her a real house.  
  
"Can we get things from home… from the old house… tomorrow?" I ask.  
  
"Oh, you'll be busy with the holiday," Mom says. "Lacklen and I will take care of it."  
  
I nod. I'm still not excited, but I try to act like I am for the cameras. I'm sure Snow can think of something to do to me if I don't seem properly thrilled.  
  
They pile us into a car so that Mom doesn't have to walk. The roads are as choppy and out of repair as ever, and I have a grandiose thought about using my salary to fix them. I doubt it will be allowed.  
  
We pull into the Village just after midnight. The lights are on in my house, and I can see a girl in a maid's uniform straightening the curtains.  
  
Mom and Lacklen and I join hands, and the camera crew has the decency to stay off the actual property, at least today (they warn that they will be back tomorrow for a tour). We walk up the path to the door.  
  
It swings open, and the maid I saw in the window stands there grinning.  
  
It's Digger.  
  
I step into her arms, and I'm finally home.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch sees his new house, and gets an idea about the new shape of his life.

I cling to Digger for a long time without speaking. She doesn't seem to mind.  
  
She presses her hand against the back of my head and kisses me, then gently pulls away. "I'm glad you're home," she says.  
  
I nod. "Are you… are you staying?"  
  
She shakes her head and sighs. "I really am here with the domestic team. Sae's daughter got me on board so I could be here. But they'll check. I guess it matters in Victors' Village whether I'm legal family or not."  
  
I squeeze her hands. "We'll take care of that as soon as they let me breathe. Okay?"  
  
"Very much okay."  
  
"You both need permission for that until you're eighteen," Mom says.  
  
I look at her. She sighs, shakes her head, and relents.  
  
"Let me show you around," Digger says. "I've had a chance to see the place while we've been getting it ready."  
  
She leads the way. We stop first in the living room, which has a huge picture window that looks out on the forest. I can't see much at this hour, though the gardens are lit up. I can see the fence at the back, but beyond it, there's darkness. On the wall, there's a huge television. Shelves stretch out to either side of it, full of shiny new books. I'll have to look through them later, but I'm sure they're all thoroughly Capitol-approved. One I can see is a glowing biography of Snow. Should make good kindling if I get cold. The rest might even entertain me for a while.  
  
I want some of the atlases I saw in the Capitol. There's even a big desk in the study off the living room, where I could open them up and look at the maps more completely than I had a chance to in the library. There's a second fireplace in here as well, and a cabinet full of office supplies, all marked from Herk Donner's shop. Maysilee's voice comes into my mind, talking about how she liked the smell of paper. My legs lose their strength, and I sit down hard on a velvet chair.  
  
"Haymitch?" Mom says.  
  
I point at the pile of office supplies. On top is a brand new journal, in better shape than the old one she once wanted to give me.  
  
"Oh." She closes the cabinet door.  
  
Digger puts her hand on my shoulder, and leans over to kiss my cheek. I grab her hand and squeeze it.  
  
Once I've gotten myself back together, she continues the tour. Off the study, there's a downstairs bathroom that's larger than Mom's bedroom at home. Digger says this is properly called "half-bath," since it doesn't have a tub. There's a large kitchen, with a fully stocked refrigerator and a set of fine china. Glasses gleam in the cupboards. Someone has taken the trouble to stock a bar for me. Mom glares at it as though it might bite.  
  
Beyond the kitchen, there's a room with square machines I don't recognize. Digger tells me -- looking amazed that such a thing could exist -- that they are for washing and drying clothes. There's even special soap for them. No washboard, no tub, no scrub brush. There are as many settings as there are on a Capitol shower, and all just for my clothes.  
  
"But I don't even have clothes yet," I say.  
  
"Sure you do," Digger tells me. "Come on upstairs."  
  
We go up the grand staircase near the door -- it has rich, wine-colored carpeting and a dark wood railing -- and into the first of the bedrooms.  
  
"You can switch them around, of course," Digger says, "But I thought this one would be good for Lacklen. It looks out on the green." She goes to a door at the end of the room that I think must lead to another room, but it's actually a personal closet. It's been stocked with clothes that I'd guess are Lacklen's size.  
  
"Wow," Lacklen says. "This is… they gave _me_ stuff?"  
  
"Well, you'll have to wear something tomorrow, won't you?" Digger grins.  
  
Lacklen goes to his closet and starts looking at shirts. He looks back over his shoulder. "This is great!"  
  
"Told you that you'd have a use for those laundry washing things." She looks over at Mom, who is sagging a little after coming up the stairs. "Oh, Rhona, this isn't going to work, is it?"  
  
"It'll work fine after I get her to the Capitol to get new lungs," I say. "Caesar's trying to get you on the list."  
  
"That's kind of him," she says, but I can see the rest in her face: _It's too late._  
  
I refuse to accept that. "Well, it could take a while," I say. "But you're warm and dry here, and until we get you better, why don't we make that study into your bedroom, so you don't have to climb the stairs? You'll even have your own bathroom."  
  
"Don't be silly," she says. "That's a lot of trouble, and besides, I haven't looked out an upstairs window in my own place for a long time. I can handle the stairs."  
  
"I'll put in an elevator," I say.  
  
She smiles fondly.  
  
Digger goes over to her and takes her hand, turning herself into a sort of living cane. "Why don't we see your room next, then?" she suggests.  
  
She leads us up the hall to a large room that looks out toward town. Mom goes to the window and smiles. "Oh, this is lovely!"  
  
"You have clothes, too," Digger says, and opens the closet, which is big enough to actually walk into, and has a floor to ceiling mirror at the end. Mom doesn't have as many clothes in there as Lacklen does. All of us notice it, and all of us, I think, suspect the same reason: The Capitol assumes she won't need them for long.  
  
"They're so lovely," Mom whispers, touching the sleeve of a forest green suit. "I've never had anything so pretty."  
  
"I think you should wear that one tomorrow," Digger says. "It'll be nice and warm, and you'll look great in it!"  
  
Mom's eyes light up, and she nods. "Let's see Haymitch's," she says.  
  
Digger takes us past the full bathroom first. It's the size of my room at the training center, and has a big, circular tub in the middle of the room. There's a shower as well, and I can see the buttons on it, just like the Capitol showers. Lacklen will have fun trying to figure it out, but I better warn Mom about the more alarming settings. The whole thing is fixed up in the same dark wood as the bannister, and the fixtures are practically gleaming against it. The knobs on the sink are actually crystal. I have no idea why I need a bathroom that looks like Capitol day spa, but I guess it's okay.  
  
Finally, we come to the end of the hall, and a room that stretches across most of the back of the house. It's the master bedroom, and it has a giant bed in it, and a little study area, and a walk-in closet bigger than my old house, I think. The closet has been stocked with all the clothes they gave me in the Capitol (except the ridiculous parade outfit, thankfully), and many more besides. There are racks of shoes, and ties that I have no idea how to wear. I'll need to call Gia on that… which will be easy, since there's a phone downstairs in the study, which has a private staircase directly to this room. I didn't notice that before. I guess it _would_ be a little weird for Mom to sleep there.  
  
Again, there's a huge picture window looking out on the back garden and the fence and the woods. I can see further here, since I'm higher up. The moon is high in the sky, lighting up the tops of the trees, and picking up a standing rock somewhere out beyond the fence.  
  
I have never been in a bedroom this grand, even when I was staying in the Capitol. Even the grander rooms I was in aren't as likeable, because they were for banquets and entertaining, and were always too crowded.  
  
This place might as well be made for me, and in a way, I'm sure it was. I've given them plenty of time during my recovery to fill it up.  
  
I hate it.  
  
I love what the people here have done to try and make it mine, but I can't look at all this and not think of Sigh Tomby's face melting in the poison water, or Gilla's arm lying at a distance from her body, or Maysilee, thrashing to death on the windy hillside.  
  
I don't know how I'm going to live here. But it's sturdy and it's warm and it's dry. I can keep Mom well. Lacklen will have clothes, and I can keep him in glasses. And Digger will come, as soon as we take care of the legal issues. She'll be in this big room with me, and I'll buy her every pretty red dress in the Capitol to hang in our closet.  
  
I can do this.  
  
I turn away from the window and smile at them. "Well?" I say. "You like it?"  
  
None of them seem fooled by my smile. Mom's eyes are deep and full of something that might come close to understanding. Digger slips her arms around my waist and holds me.  
  
Lacklen looks around and says, "I'd rather you hadn't had to go to the Games." He smiles slyly. "But as long as you did… I like my clothes."  
  
I laugh. "You're officially in charge of making sure I don't take myself too seriously."  
  
"Was I ever _not_?"  
  
The four of us laugh together, and the strangeness of the new place starts to fade as we bring some of who we are into it. Digger takes us back downstairs (I carry Mom, though she objects at first), and we settle in the kitchen. We're all too full to eat anything, but Digger pours us some sweet orange juice to drink. Lacklen has never had it, and samples it carefully before gulping it down and asking for more.  
  
We sit awkwardly for a long time, because there's a huge topic of conversation that I think we all feel hanging around us, and no one wants to bring up.  
  
Finally, I say, "What have you guys been doing? I mean, anything that doesn't have to do with the Games. I'll talk about that later. Sometime. Maybe."  
  
They all nod solemnly, and I see them searching for something to say. I hate this.  
  
"Mom went on a date," Lacklen says.  
  
Mom's jaw drops, a little too theatrically. "It was not a date, Lacklen Abernathy. It was just dinner with Mr. Burk, from the mines."  
  
Lacklen forces a laugh. "Which he paid for at Sullivan's Inn."  
  
"The mine foreman?" I make myself smile. "I knew he was sweet on you."  
  
She puts her hand to her face. She's actually blushing, which makes me feel good. "He's not sweet on me, and it wasn't a date. Dates would be… well, a bit pointless." She winces. "Sorry."  
  
"Did you have fun?" I ask.  
  
"No." She sighs. "I've been worried sick about you, and having fun wasn't on the agenda. Mostly we talked about that. He almost lost his little girl last winter from the pneumonia, and he understood. But if he asks me again, I just might see about having a little fun."  
  
I look down. "I'm sorry you were worried."  
  
" _That_ is not your fault. You are not the one who owes me an apology."  
  
We fall into an awkward silence again. I look at Digger. "Mom says you and Lacklen have been helping at the Donners' shop." I make myself say this in an even tone. I make myself not think about the fact that it was because the Donners are in mourning. I remember Maysilee saying that there was no reason Gilla couldn't be a shopkeeper, and she herself was strong enough to be a miner. "Do you like being a merchant?"  
  
Digger blinks a few times, not sure what to do with this, since it's obviously connected to the Games. Finally she says, "Well… I'm actually kind of good at it. A bunch of us have been taking turns watching the counter. Your friend Danny taught us to work the register. And you always have to smile." She shrugs. "I'm good at smiling."  
  
"I thought they'd close," Mom says. "But they have to pay every day, even if they don't sell anything. They don't even get time for -- " She stops before saying "mourning," but I hear it anyway.  
  
I sigh. I guess there's no talking about anything without talking about the Games.  
  
Lacklen looks around anxiously, then says, "Well, as long as we're bringing stuff up, can I ask about Caesar Flickerman? We talked on the phone and he sent his very own eye doctor out with the camera crews, but it's not the same. What's he like?"  
  
I latch onto this. Caesar Flickerman is a safe topic. I tell them about the tour of the Capitol, all the things that weren't on television… except for the baby named for Maysilee. I don't think I'll talk about that for a while. They want me to describe the library and the museum. I tell them about how the name "Abernathy" is from a place called Scotland, and am surprised that Mom already knows that.  
  
"Your daddy looked that sort of thing up. I think he even wrote it down in his dictionary. My folk were Coburns, which is Scottish, too. At least that's what Daddy said."  
  
"What's it _mean_ , though?"  
  
"What was in the museum?"  
  
I shrug. "Men going to war in skirts."  
  
Lacklen bursts out laughing.  
  
"Hey!" I say. "They were tough-looking skirts."  
  
Mom and Digger start laughing, too, and after a while, I get going. It hurts my gut, but I don't care. I can't seem to stop. After everything that's happened, laughing myself to death doesn't seem like a bad way to go.  
  
We're still laughing when the Peacekeepers come and tell Digger that her work hours are over, and she is here long past the Victors' Village curfew. She kisses me goodnight, and I promise her that we'll get the paperwork taken care of just as soon as they're done with the festivities. I watch her leave under armed escort. The giggles dry up.  
  
The pain in my gut doesn't.  
  
I head for the bar, but a look from Mom stops me. She sits me down and makes me some kind of herbal tea that Ruth's been giving her.  
  
I don't like that she's been in enough pain that's she's actually told Ruth about it.  
  
I want to stay up longer, keep Mom and Lacklen in sight, but I'm about ready to fold as it is, and when Mom suggests that we all make our way to our fine new rooms to sleep, I don't argue. Lacklen and I help her up the stairs. We all hold onto each other for a few minutes when we get to her door. None of us says anything about this.  
  
Then, we go to our separate places. Mom claps and cries out, with some real delight, that they've given her a real nightgown. "It's silk!"  
  
I grin. I guess I can live with something that makes her happy enough to actually clap.  
  
I check my dresser and find that they've given me pajamas as well -- a few pairs, actually. I pick some lightweight ones out and go to bed. There are cool silk sheets here, and the bed is big enough for about ten people -- there are probably families on the Seam that sleep more people in less space -- but I'm in it alone. It seems strange, but I'm too tired to worry about long thoughts.  
  
I dream about Maysilee. It's not a nightmare. We are just sitting in the back garden, and she wants to know how everything has turned out. I tell her how awkward it is to talk to everyone, and she tells me to get over it. She's glad that her parents' shop is open. She thinks Digger is adorable in her maid's uniform and tells me I ought to have her keep it for "special occasions."  
  
"I sure wish you were here," I say. "You could live next door. I bet that house is nice, too."  
  
"I imagine it is."  
  
"It'd be nice to have someone I could actually talk to."  
  
"You have people. You need to trust them."  
  
"No. It's not smart."  
  
She touches my face, the way Mom did up on the stage, and says, "Not everything's about being smart, Haymitch."  
  
Something starts buzzing, and suddenly, we're back in the arena. There's a swarm of mutts. Maysilee gets out her blowgun to chase them down. I tell her not to. I try to run after her but I'm tangled up in something.  
  
I struggle until I wake up and find myself twisted in my silk sheets. The clock beside the bed reads seven-thirty. The holiday won't start until people are up in the Capitol to watch it on television, and they're two hours behind us, so I have a little while, I hope. Outside the window, I see a thin merchant boy in the back garden, doing something to the shrubbery. He looks familiar, like everyone around here does, but I don't think I know him.  
  
I get up and dress in black pants and a soft sweater. It may be the same sweater I was wearing my first night in the Capitol, when I drank too much wine with dinner, but I'm not sure. That was a very long time ago.  
  
I peek in the door of Mom's room. She's sleeping peacefully in her big bed. There are blood spots on her pillow from her coughing in the night, but the fit seems to have passed. I watch her until I'm sure I see her chest moving up and down, then close the door again. Lacklen didn't bother closing his door. It looks like he didn't go right to sleep. There are several piles of books beside him on the bed, probably taken from the shelves downstairs. One of them is open beside his head, and I guess he finally drifted off to sleep reading. I turn off his light and let him sleep.  
  
The buzzing is still going on in back. It's too early.  
  
It takes me a few tries to find the back door, which turns out to be off the laundry room. It goes out onto a porch that's quite high up, since the land slopes a little bit. The merchant boy is trimming the already perfectly shaped shrubs, pausing to sweep away the detritus now and then.  
  
I go down into my garden. In the daylight, I can see that it's mostly the shaped shrubs here, but there are also flower patches and a little fountain with…  
  
I wrinkle my nose. It's the fountain from the little meadow, the one shaped like the Cornucopia. This thing is going to leave as soon as the Capitol film crews go home. I consider befouling it now, but the boy with the hedge trimmer has already noticed me.  
  
He turns off the buzzing tool and raises a hand in greeting. "Hi, there," he says, coming over. "Sorry it's so early, but they wanted the grounds cleaned up before the tour."  
  
I grind my teeth. I forgot that they were coming here before the holiday. "What time?"  
  
"I guess ten. I still have to do the green and the other houses."  
  
I sigh. "Okay."  
  
He holds out his hand. "I'm Merle Undersee. My dad has the garden shop."  
  
"We have a garden shop?"  
  
He smiles. "All sorts of supplies. And I guess once they're done filming, you'll be keeping your own garden, so you might want to come by."  
  
"Can I hire you to do it? I mean… later in the day than this?"  
  
He laughs. "Sure. We'll talk about it. I could come up after school."  
  
"We're not in class together, are we?"  
  
"No. I'm a year behind you."  
  
"Good. I mean, it wouldn't have been good if I just forgot."  
  
Merle keeps smiling. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to him. He seems friendly enough, but what do you say to someone you never met before, who's trimming shrubs in garden you've never set foot in until now, and who wants a job. I don't even know when my salary will start coming. Or how I get to the money. I hope someone will show me that stuff. I've never had any reason to know about it.  
  
He ends up suggesting that I take a walk around the green and see the Village in the daylight. "I come up here to do the caretaking a lot," he says. "It's real pretty."  
  
 _It better be_ , I think, _considering what it costs to live here._ But I don't say it. Merle Undersee is a total stranger.  
  
I go around to the front of the house. There are roses planted along the sides. I stop at the end of the path to door and look up. It's a fine house. No doubt about it.  
  
I turn away from it and head up the carefully tended path along the green. The house next door stands coolly empty, and the one after that, as well. I stop looking at them after that. It's sort of creepy to stare at their blank eyes.  
  
I do turn and look when I pass Duronda Carson's house. I don't know what I expect to see, and in fact, I don't see anything, except that tree, waving in the wind. She raised a child out here alone (there's not even a solid rumor about who the father was). Her daughter, Sheba, lives on the Seam now, with her husband. There's no inheriting a victor's house, in case we need a reminder that it doesn't really belong to us. She probably wouldn't want it, anyway, not after losing her little boy to the Games. I wonder if I should talk to her. Find out more about Duronda.  
  
I decide not to. Everyone saw Sheba when her boy's body came home. She accused Duronda of getting her child killed. I guess it probably wouldn't be a great conversation.  
  
I stop cold.  
  
That will be my job now. Getting tributes killed every year. Even if I somehow have a winner every year, there'll still be one coming home in a long cargo box. And, if I'm honest with myself about this, it'll most likely be two every year.  
  
I look at the tree behind Duronda's house and a chill comes over me. I don't know why no one has cut that thing down.  
  
I make myself keep walking around the green, past the empty houses on the far side. It _is_ pretty; Merle was right about that. It's also cold and empty.  
  
I sit on one of the little benches for a while and try to appreciate the pretty part, but a squirrel scurries down the side of a tree and startles me. I reach for my knife, but I didn't bring it with me. Careless.  
  
I go back to my house, though it takes me two tries to find it, since Merle has moved on to the next house and I try to go there first.  
  
Mom is up now, and has made it downstairs on her own. She's fussing around in the kitchen, making breakfast. We have to work together to figure out the fancy stove. By the time she has some flapjacks going, Lacklen is up. We eat together, and I tell them about the green. I tell Lacklen he can have his friends over to play whatever games he feels like out there. We all stumble a little over the word "games," but I decide to just force it out. There _are_ games that don't end up with corpses.  
  
We've barely finished eating when the camera crews arrive for their tour.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the town holiday to celebrate his homecoming, Haymitch learns exactly how brutal Snow is willing to be.

It takes them an hour and a half to get us camera ready. Domestics -- pointedly not including Digger this morning -- sweep through to make our beds and put things back in order after our wild spree of not doing anything at all last night. A production assistant chooses clothes for me that will, in theory, look good on camera. Mom is allowed to wear the forest green suit she liked last night, and a team of emergency make-up technicians flutters around her, trying to show her miraculously restored to health after our amazing windfall. Lacklen refuses to take off his glasses, and a producer mutters something about how Caesar should have sent contact lenses.  
  
"He offered to," Lacklen tells me. "But I figured if I broke the glasses frame, I could tape it up. And it doesn't really matter how old the glasses are. If anything breaks down -- you know how sometimes we don't get things -- I'll still be able to see a little bit, even if my glasses are out of date. If contacts go bad, I'd have to get new ones from the Capitol or be blind again."  
  
"Good thinking," I tell him.  
  
"Can you tell that to your Capitol friends?"  
  
I shrug. They seem to have relented, anyway.  
  
The books Lacklen got out are carefully re-shelved, and furniture is moved around to cover the shelves up in the living room. Set dressers put some kind of sports equipment in Lacklen's room. Mine gets a poster of some actress from the Capitol wearing a barely-there dress. I ask one of the set technicians what that's about.  
  
"Oh, don't worry about it," he says, waving it off. "We'll take it down before we go. But we want to establish you as a normal boy."  
  
"By hiding the book shelves and giving me a half-naked girl instead?"  
  
This just seems to confuse him, so I let it go. He probably doesn't know, anyway, and I do -- it's another step in making me seem stupid. Haymitch Abernathy, just one more teenage boy whose brain is located somewhere south of his belt buckle. I am not surprised to see him scatter around a few magazines that look like they might have been the source of the poster.   I don't even know where you can _buy_ magazines like that around here, though there must be a place if the crews got them.  But I doubt anyone would put up with the waste of paper, and I know for a fact that Mom would tan my hide if she caught me with them.  
  
I leave my room and go downstairs, where they're setting up an interview area in the living room. The techs don't notice me come in.  
  
"I heard His Highness is grumpy," one of them grumbles as they move a lighting array.  
  
"Well, who can blame him? I mean, this house only has _four_ bedrooms. And he doesn't have to pay any taxes, but you know, it's all so _dreary._ "  
  
The first one snorts. "Rate my taxes are building up, I'll end up in debtors' prison. But no, I can't possibly understand his _pain_."  
  
"Maybe we should get him a drink. I hear that mellows him out."  
  
They both laugh.  
  
My cheeks hot, I fade back to the kitchen, where they're rearranging the food in the refrigerator, and joking about how a bunch of District Twelve hicks probably don't know what half of it is. (That this is true -- there are some kinds of cheeses in there that I can't even pronounce -- doesn't make it sting any less.) I go outside to the garden. Merle Undersee is back, being bossed around by the set dressers.  
  
One of them grabs his pruning shears. "Can't you people do anything right?"  
  
I go over and grab the set dresser's arm, then pry the pruning shears out of his hand and stare at him long enough for him to remember that I'm not someone he wants to see angry with a sharp object. Then I say, "Merle's my new gardener, and he's doing the garden the way _I_ want it." I hand the shears back to Merle. "Thanks," I say. "I think it looks great just the way it is. I'll pay you on Saturday, like we said, right?"  
  
He frowns thoughtfully as he puts the shears in the canvas bag he has slung over his shoulder. "Thank you."  
  
I shrug.  
  
He loads up his cart and wheels it away.  
  
"You're going to have those misshapen bushes seen all over Panem," the set dresser sniffs. "I just told him to make them look like dogs."  
  
"But I don't want dogs, and it's my garden." I look over at the little Cornucopia fountain. "And while I'm at it, I think I'd rather buy my own fountain. Take that thing back to the Capitol with you."  
  
"Well, I -- " His face flushes, then he mutters something not complimentary and goes back to his team. I see him pick up some kind of mobile communication device.  
  
I am not surprised a few minutes later when the producer calls me inside. "You have a phone call," she says, looking awed. "It's the president."  
  
I go to my study and close the door, shutting the whole crew outside. I pick up the phone. I've never used one before, but it seems straightforward. I press the "speaker" button.  
  
"You're not being cooperative," President Snow says, without waiting for a hello. His voice comes out of a little black box.  
  
"I don't want my shrubs looking like dogs."  
  
"The fountain will remain."  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Oh, you don't?"  
  
I sit down behind my desk. "Seems to me, you told me not to mention anything that wasn't in the broadcast. You skipped the whole time Maysilee and I spent in the meadow with the little fountain. If they ask about it -- and someone will, because _someone_ saw it in the live broadcast -- then all the sudden, I'll have to be telling them about all sorts of things that didn't end up in the highlights."  
  
There is silence on the other end of the line. I imagine Snow flaring his nostrils. Finally, he says, "All right."  
  
I didn't expect capitulation, and I don't trust it. "Then I'll send it back with the crew."  
  
"What on earth would we do with it here? Melt it down, if you don't want it." He pauses. "Of course, it -- along with your house -- is Capitol property. You'll want to be sure your new Head Peacekeeper doesn't find out."  
  
"I watch television. I know you won't have them do anything to a victor."  
  
"To you? Oh, no. I've seen your test scores. You're too smart to do something like that. I'm not sure about your mother and brother, though. They may not be as smart as you are. _They_ might destroy Capitol property. And your mother doesn't look like she'd last through much of a punishment."  
  
"You leave them out of it."  
  
"I'm not suggesting bringing them into it. I'm only suggesting that, were something to happen to our property, they would be obvious suspects --"  
  
"You're only trying to blackmail my boy!"  
  
I look up. Mom is at the top of the spiral staircase that leads down from my room. She's made up to look healthy, and at the moment, she looks like the rough and tumble Seam girl people once knew better than crossing. The make-up doesn't help her movement, though, and as she comes down the stairs, she is clinging to the railing.  
  
"I know what you've been doing. You let up on him!"  
  
"Ah," Snow says. "Mrs. Abernathy. What a delight. I'm sorry we haven't been able to speak in person."  
  
Mom reaches the bottom of the stairs, and nearly falls at the edge of the desk. She grabs it with both hands and stares at the phone box. "I'm not delighted. I know what you put Haymitch through. I know what happened to those children. All of them."  
  
"Congratulations. You've mastered the art of watching television."  
  
"Don't you talk to my mother like that," I say.  
  
"I feel I've been quite civilized." He sighs loudly. "I only called to remind you that the cameras will be on you today. You will be live, for the most part, though we can certainly cut you off if it becomes necessary. We had a conversation in the Capitol, Mr. Abernathy. I urge you recall it in detail."  
  
"I remember it."  
  
"Really? Because there have been several occasions only in the last two days that have made me question your memory."  
  
"I _remember_."  
  
"And you are also to remember that the audience expects certain things from you, including undiluted delight at the improvement of your material situation. They will not want to hear you waxing philosophical. Don't disappoint them. Or Miss Pepper. Or me."  
  
There's a loud click, and he's gone.  
  
"What conversation?" Mom asks. "And what does that Pepper woman have to do with it?"  
  
"She's nice," I say. "And he can reach her. You can figure out the rest of the conversation from there."  
  
Mom nods. I get up and guide her into the chair. "Haymitch, you worry too much," she says.  
  
"He'll do it."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure he will. But what he does isn't your responsibility."  
  
"But -- "  
  
She shakes her head. "Bullies make threats all the time. You know that. Sometimes they carry them out. But they aren't a force of nature. They're not wild animals that you're goading into attacking. They're human beings who make a conscious choice to do whatever it is they do. If they choose to do something wrong in order to hurt you, that doesn't make it your fault. It's their choice."  
  
"Yeah, except that I know it's what he'll choose. If Gia ends up in trouble, I can't exactly say I didn't know what would happen if I crossed Snow."  
  
"Because he's made a choice to be that way. Which is _his_ moral responsibility, not yours."  
  
I can't answer that. She's right, but it doesn't make a whole lot of difference whose moral responsibility it is if Gia ends up in prison because I do something that annoys Snow. She'll still be in prison.  
  
And then, there was the thing he said about accusing Mom and Lacklen of committing crimes.  
  
Mom picks up on this. It's not surprising. It's where she walked in. She puts a sharp finger under my chin and forces me to look at her. "The same goes for me. And your brother. You do what's right, Haymitch Abernathy. If Snow does something absurd in response to it, then so be it."  
  
The study door opens and the camera crew comes in. Everything is set up, and they need me to lead them on a tour of the house.  
  
This takes about an hour, much of it spent on lighting adjustments. They make Mom show them her room. Lacklen and I carry her up the stairs and back down again. (I put my foot down on letting them film this, so I can be sure it won't be shown.)  
  
Once we've finished, we're put through another, shorter prep before we're all loaded into cars to back to town for the festival.  
  
Duronda's victory was so long ago that I doubt anyone in town remembers attending her holiday, and I have no idea what to expect. I'm pleasantly surprised -- they've allowed it to at least resemble a District Twelve gathering. There's a big pavilion set up near the giant screen, and Hickory Mayne is already up on a stage at one end of it, playing his fiddle while people dance, pounding out the rhythm with the soles of their shoes. Glen Everdeen is up there with a guitar, too, and I hope they let him sing.  
  
Aside from the music, a line of booths with food of all sorts snakes down along the government side of the square, and all of the shops have some kind of contest going on to win some of their wares. There are also skill games, with little prizes that the children all seem to want, and carnival rides that spin merrily against the sky. Little kids are laughing at the top of a big wheel that takes them around and around.  
  
 _Yeah,_ I tell myself. _They're just getting footage for when those same little kids end up speared in the arena._  
  
Maybe so.  
  
But they're laughing now. I think I'll just let them laugh.  
  
They have to make a huge fuss about me getting out of the car, of course. I wish they wouldn't. But my neighbors are in a good mood, and they cheer. I wave to them. The cheer becomes deafening. I don't kid myself that it's any great feeling they have for me, but they're having a good time, and I guess they figure it's my coming home that got it for them.  
  
Hickory, who's stopped playing his fiddle, goes to the microphone. "Looks like the man of the year has finally gotten up!"  
  
There's mostly good-natured laughter at this. I guess they've spent enough time with the film crews lately that they know I haven't exactly been loafing.  
  
There's motion in the crowd, and I grin when I see Digger pushing her way through. She smiles at me.  
  
"You going to kiss her or not?" Hickory calls from the stage.  
  
I do remember Snow saying that I should keep things quiet with Digger, but there's a red light flashing on the stage that means we're live -- and everyone in the audience already heard Hickory call out, and they definitely hear half of district twelve picking it up: "Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!"  
  
She shrugs.  
  
I kiss her.  
  
There is more cheering.  
  
The Capitol crew looks confused.  
  
"Why don't we go to the midway?" the producer suggests. "I guess you could… win a bear for your girl or something." He looks at Digger suspiciously. She's not part of the script.  
  
"Or you could marry her," Mom suggests blithely, clearly picking up the hostility. "I'll give you permission right here and now."  
  
Given her general position on this, I guess she's figured the whole situation out. After lecturing me about not giving in to Snow's bullying, I guess she decided to offer a life lesson on the subject.  
  
I smile. "I'm going to hold you to that, you know. But we have to wait until the government offices are open."  
  
She laughs. It's forced.  
  
Finally, we get an order to "mingle." The flashing light goes out, and on the giant screen, I see them showing footage from the tour of my house. There are floor plans cut in, and Capitol decorators are called out to comment on how I can improve on what Claudius Templesmith refers to as perfection.  
  
Digger and I roll our eyes at each other.  
  
We end up in the pavilion, surrounded by neighbors who keep bringing me food from the booths. I don't know most of them, though a few people from school are there. It's busy and the camera crew gets bored watching the same scene play over and over. I get a terse reminder that I'm supposed to give a speech as soon as the miners get off work -- if it can be called a reminder when I don't remember hearing of it before -- and an instruction to keep my clothes clean. They head off to film the midway games. Lacklen loudly proposes taking Mom on some of the slower rides, and she's more enthusiastic than she should be. I take the meaning: spend time with Digger.  
  
It seems like a good idea, though it's hard to talk about anything important in the middle of a crowd, while Glen sings and plays the guitar up on stage.  
  
Danny finally gets away from the contest at the bakery (an old miner named Comfrey McGee has won a loaf of bread every week for a year), and he sits down at the table with Digger and me.  
  
"Welcome home," he says.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Didn't get a chance to say it the other night."  
  
"Oh. Yeah. I should have come over and said something. That stack cake was terrific."  
  
"Glad you liked it. And you looked a little busy.  I didn't think you could visit."  
  
"They really making the sweet shop run a contest?" Digger asks him.  
  
He nods. "They are. But I think Kay's up for it." He looks at me. "She wants to make sure you know they're glad you got home, if Maysilee couldn't."  
  
"Danny, come on," Digger says. "I told you not to --"  
  
I take her hand. "It's okay. Maybe I'd better be able to talk about it. I have to give a speech."  
  
"When?" Danny asks.  
  
"When the miners get off work. I thought they'd be off today."  
  
"Yeah, they did, too," Digger says. "But they got called in for a half-day. They're blasting out a new tunnel down under the Seam. Glen says there were some window rattlers this morning. Scared the pants off a film crew at your old house."  
  
"I won't miss _that_ ," I say.  
  
Digger wrinkles her nose. "Why would you miss _anything?_ " She looks at Danny. "You have to go see his new place."  
  
"Saw it on the screen," he says. "I'm going to come cook in your kitchen. You know that, right?"  
  
"If you can tell me how to pronounce the names of the cheeses they stuck me with, you can cook as long as you want."  
  
He laughs. Ruth comes over after a little while. She looks pale and is very quiet, but she tells me that she'll help me with any medical treatment I need -- money doesn't always mean you can actually get medicine to buy out here. Danny tries to cheer her up, but the best he gets is a wan smile. He ends up asking Glen to sing a ribald song about a miner's daughter, and that finally brings out a real smile.  
  
The other members of Maysilee's group start coming over, ostensibly to greet me and welcome me home, but it really seems to be mostly because they spent the whole Games together, and got very close. Glen even comes down from the stage when he's done. I stay quiet. They're a group of their own now. Ironically, the fact that I didn't _watch_ the Games puts me on the outside.  
  
I don't mind. I don't feel like talking, anyway.  
  
Mom and Lacklen come back from the midway, and they are part of things as well. Lacklen tries to bring me in, telling me stories about how they all got together to decide what to tell the cameras. Danny apparently got them going with a story about how Maysilee and I once supposedly took out a twenty foot bear that was threatening the bakery, which they believed until he decided that the bear should breathe fire.  
  
"Jabberjay drill," he explains.  
  
"It's the strangest game," Mom says. "They sit around lying to each other for fun."  
  
"She won three rounds," Danny tells me.  
  
I laugh. More people come over. There is a bar in the pavilion, but no one suggests that I have a drink, and, though it occurs to me to have one (pretty much every time I look over there), I don't actually feel a strong compulsion to do so.  
  
During all of this, we occasionally feel what Glen calls "window rattlers" -- little tremors that come from blasting in the mines near where they run under the town. Here in the square, they're distant, but down on the Seam, they do rattle windows, and sometimes break dishes.  
  
The first of the miners start to come up into the square. They're washed up and not covered with coal dust (I hope my Capitol preps are watching and notice this for next year), but they're still in their overalls.  Someone's still down there, because the blasting keeps going.  
  
The producer comes over and says, "Now's the time. Do you know what you're going to say?"  
  
I don't, but I figure I'll wing it.  
  
I stand up. Mom's hand comes out and wraps around my wrist. "Say what you mean, Haymitch. No jabberjay drills up there."  
  
She looks at me solemnly, and I know what she wants me to do. I'm not sure I'll do it, but I know.  
  
I go up to the stage and lower the microphone so it's right in front of me. I try to remember how long other victors have spoken. It doesn't seem to me that it's been a long time.  
  
The red light indicating a live broadcast starts flashing again.  
  
I'm not sure where to start, so I just say, "Is everyone having fun?"  
  
This gets enthusiastic applause.  
  
"I'm real glad to hear it," I say. I look over at the table I came from, at my friends, who spent the Games together, who are helping each other out now. I think about what Maysilee said in her interview.  
  
I know what I'm going to say.  
  
"There's a lot of things I'm not glad about," I start out. "I'm not glad that I'm alone up here -- "  
  
The producer takes a quick step forward, but then presses his fingers to his ear, listening to an instruction. He stops, looking puzzled.  
  
" -- and I'm sure not glad that no one in any of the other districts is having fun. I had a chance to meet lots of good people from other districts. And from the Capitol. I sure wish you could all meet Caesar and Gia."  
  
This gets puzzled looks, but I know what I mean to do.  
  
"I guess I never thought about it much before. How we don't talk to each other when we should. It occurred to Maysilee, though. She knew we needed to talk. And she'd be pleased, I think, to see the way everyone is here together. It's the one thing she really wanted. The one thing that meant the world to her. So she'd be happy to see tables full of people where you can't tell if it's more Seam or more merchant."  
  
I pause and wait to see if the live broadcast light goes off. It doesn't.  
  
"I got to spend a lot of time in the Capitol with Beech and Gilla, too. They both loved their people a lot, and I guess they'd be glad to see you happy.  
  
"I thought a lot about home in the arena. I don't know how much you saw at home -- Maysilee and I, we talked about a lot of things. She loved her shop. She wanted to know more about my life, and especially about my girl, Digger Hardy. We told each other our stories. That's a good thing.  
  
"And I just wanted to say -- let's keep it up. If I learned anything in the Games, it's that having allies makes all the difference. We're all District Twelve here."  
  
I step away from the microphone.  
  
Mom starts the applause. Some people in the audience seem perplexed, but Maysilee's group has an inkling that I just suggested that we need better communication lines and stronger alliances. They don't know, of course, that I systematically broke all of Snow's rules.  
  
The red light goes out.  
  
I go back to the table. Mom gives me a big hug.  
  
The producer comes over, looking uncomfortable. "That was quite a little speech," he says.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"I thought it was wonderful," Mom says.  
  
"Yes, well." The producer looks around. "We'd like to get some final shots before we put together the montage for the news about you moving into your new house. We need to go down to the old one and get footage of you moving your things out."  
  
We start to leave the square, surrounded by the crew, but we're stopped by some commotion coming through the crowd. I see a flash of white, then three Peacekeepers come through. Standing at the front of the little troika, smirking unpleasantly, is Lucretia Beckett.  
  
"Someone wants a word with our victor," she says.  
  
"We have to get footage," the producer says, sounding peeved. "You don't have the authority -- "  
  
"Oh, trust me," Beckett says. "The call waiting for him has the authority to override you."  
  
He grits his teeth. "Fine. We'll take everyone else down there, and when he's done getting more laurels, he can join us."  
  
"Go on," Mom says. "We'll get your things."  
  
I nod.  
  
They pull her away toward a car. Beckett marches me toward the mayor's house.  There's a little tremor under my feet as we go.  
  
Beckett shoves me through the door of the mayor's house, and upstairs to a large study. The phone here doesn't just have a voice box. It's actually connected to a screen. I see myself in one corner of it, coming in. The rest of it is taken up by President Snow.  
  
"Charming speech," he says coldly. "I believe I told you to avoid discussing things not on the highlight reel."  
  
I grin. "Sorry. It just came up."  
  
He presses his lips together. "Yes. I can see how such a thing could happen. The attitude of the crowd must be almost as intoxicating as the whiskey you drowned yourself in at our banquet. But I strongly suggest you stick to the whiskey, because this sort of intoxication will prove dangerous for you."  
  
"What you do is on your head," I tell him. I feel better than I have since I got back. I don't feel like the laughingstock of Panem.  
  
"We'll see," he says. He looks down at something in his hand, then goes on. "As long as you were bringing up conversations not seen on the approved reel, it's quite the pity that you failed to mention the story you told your ally. It was quite an interesting one, involving pigs and a wolf, as I recall."  
  
"The subject didn't come up."  
  
"I was particularly interested in your commentary. Your apparent belief that the wolf was foolish to tell the little pigs what he meant to do."  
  
"Gave them a chance to get away, didn't it?"  
  
"Ah, yes. And therein was the problem. He allowed them to have a back door. If he were wiser, he would have blocked the escape routes before announcing himself."  
  
The buzz I had from talking to the crowd starts to fade. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"Since hearing your colorful re-telling, I've made it a point to read that story in its other versions, Mr. Abernathy. The wolf's failure was not in his threat. He did carry through on it, after all."  
  
Suddenly, the world goes glassy. I see an ant on the windowsill, crawling along with lumbering steps. A little tremor makes it all the way up here. A stronger tremor than there generally is from simple mine blasting.  
  
I take a step back. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."  
  
"It's a bit late for that, Mr. Abernathy. And I have a feeling that this cockiness didn't develop on its own, did it?  It seems likely that someone might have told you to disregard my warnings.  Who might that be?"  
  
There's another tremor from the mine.  
  
I blink slowly, terror too large for my head swelling out into the room. "Please… no."  
  
"What was it the wolf said? The line your ally urged you to return to the story?"  
  
I close my eyes. Another tremor comes.  
  
"Ah, yes." Snow picks raises his hand, and I see that he's got some kind of signaling device. "It was, _I'll huff_ " -- he presses the button, and the world shakes -- " _and I'll puff_ " --  
  
The next one is an actual jolt.  
  
"No!" I say. "Please!"  
  
" _And I'll blow your house down._ "  
  
Snow presses down on his button again, and there is a huge blast. The world gives one solid shake.  
  
And then the screaming begins.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow's anger hits Haymitch at his most vulnerable point.

The world goes slow again, but this time there's no advantage it could possibly get me. Nothing to be gained. It's already too late.  
  
I run out of the mayor's house without waiting for Snow to break the connection. Outside, the big wheel ride has tilted, and people are trapped on it, screaming, while others run to help. I see Digger in the crowd, and Danny. But if anything happens here, it's incidental, and I know it.  
  
I run for the Seam.  
  
I hear someone running behind me, but I have no idea who it is, and I don't care. Most people are up in the square, not down here checking on their houses, but a few people have wandered outside, cursing about broken windows.  
  
It's not until I get close to home that things look more serious, not until I'm almost there that it looks like a real disaster. Digger's old house, the one she lived in before her parents died, has cracked down the middle. No one lives there now, so no one has been hurt. Another neighbor -- I don't even know the name -- has lost a chicken coop.  
  
I go around the last bend.  
  
My house is lying on the ground, collapsed to half its height, broken things sticking out like skeletal fingers. It has been shaken apart at every join. The supporting timbers have broken, the fire-damaged walls have collapsed. I see the tarp I put up last spring lying twisted on top of the wreckage.  
  
"Mom!" I scream. "Mom!"  
  
"Haymitch!"  
  
I turn wildly, sure that Mom is beside me, ready to come out and tell me it's all a sick joke, or just a warning, that of course everyone was clear. Snow wouldn't kill his own camera crew, after all.  
  
But it's Ruth Keyton, of all people. She is bent over, her hands on her knees, panting from the run. She looks up. "Let me help."  
  
I shake my head. "I -- Ruth -- I --"  
  
"I saw you run." She gasps for breath. "I can help. But don't move things too quickly. If people are trapped, it could…" She breathes heavily. "It could hurt them more."  
  
"But -- "  
  
"Listen. My dad trained me. To help. If there's a mine accident. You know it from mine safety class, too."  
  
I do. I know I heard something like it. But I never took any interest in the mining classes. I never cared.  
  
Ruth comes around and grabs me by the wrists. "Listen to me, Haymitch Abernathy. You are not going to go crazy. You are going to help your mother and your brother and those Capitol camera people, because you're a good person. Maysilee wouldn't have trusted you if you weren't a good person."  
  
"I can't…"  
  
"Yes, you can. Just do what I tell you."  
  
I fight her for a moment, then I nod.  
  
She tells me to approach the pile of rubble slowly. She takes one side, and I take the other. We listen for people calling out. See where there are pockets in the collapsed of girders and wires. It seems too substantial to be the house I grew up in, the wispy twig house that the wind blew through on cold nights. There couldn't be this much of it left. As I pass under the pine tree, I can actually see through to where a live camera light is flashing.  
  
"Hello?" I call. "Mom? Lacklen? Anyone?"  
  
Someone groans.  
  
"Ruth! Over here!"  
  
She comes around, looks into the hole and calls, "Can anyone speak?"  
  
"Don't know," someone says. "House… fell in. Explosion."  
  
It's not Mom or Lacklen. "Where's my family?"  
  
"Can't see… anything…"  
  
"Mom!" I shout. "Mom!"  
  
No one answers.  
  
Ruth makes me stop while she examines the pile of wreckage, then directs me to start moving the small things near the hole.  
  
"But -- "  
  
"But nothing. If we move the big beams and then all of that collapses, it'll bury them."  
  
We start to work. It is excruciatingly slow. I'm not sure when other people start to show up, but I know that by the time the sun starts to set, the old miners are helping out. We hear a little bit of talk from beneath the pile, but I'm moved away from the site. I'm not sure who actually does it, but I find myself in a hastily constructed shelter, with Digger's arms around me, though I can't seem to feel them. Ruth's father gives me some kind of tea that makes everything seem very far away.  
  
The mine foreman comes in. I have trouble concentrating on what he's saying, though he's weeping without restraint. He says the instructions came in wrong. Something about improper maps and how there never should have been blasting like that under a residential area. It was meant to be a mile south. He doesn't know how the calculations were so far off. Someone leads him away. I don't care.  
  
Night is falling, and they've set up huge lights to keep working by. One of the other production teams from the Capitol has joined in, and they celebrate when one of their camera people is pulled from the wreck, still breathing. This was the one who talked to me, I guess, and he is brought in and thanks me (and Ruth, though he doesn't know her name) for starting the work, before being taken to the medical station at the mines, the closest thing we have to a hospital.  
  
Before he goes, I ask him about my mother and my brother. He doesn't know. Mom was in her room. I send Digger to tell the crews where the room was.  
  
Ruth herself comes in for a while and shines a light in my eyes. She puts a blanket around me and asks me very strange questions, like how old I am and what my father's name was. I guess I get these right. She leaves, but not until someone else comes in. Danny. He doesn't ask me stupid questions. He just sits there with me until Digger gets back.  
  
They find Lacklen next. He is closest to the cave in. He might have lived for a few minutes, but a broke piece of something fell in on him. I want to go out and see him, but no one will let me (I hear someone say, "He doesn't need that image in his head," like I can't hear from five feet away), and I can't seem to move on my own. It can't be real. Last night, he fell asleep with his face in a book. We didn't say anything important to each other. There was no last scene, so it's not possible that he's dead, and in some condition that someone thinks I couldn't stand seeing. It's just _not_.  
  
Then again, most of the kids in the arena didn't get a last scene, either, not even Beech and Gilla. I saw the movie. Most of them were turned into extras in my story.  
  
Snow has turned my brother into an extra. Snow is going to die for this.  
  
The sound technician the site producer are pulled out from the living room. They are dead. I don't care, and I don't ask to see them.  
  
I don't know how long they've been digging -- how long can it take to dig through the remains of my little house? -- when a cry goes up from the far side.  
  
I look up when Clay Hawthorne -- the big young miner from Maysilee's group -- comes in. "We got your mom," he says. "She's alive."  
  
I am not prepared for this. "What?"  
  
He looks down. "She's hurt really bad. But they took her to the medical station. You need to come."  
  
Someone piles me into a road-cart, the sort of thing they use to transport heavy trash around the mines. Digger stays beside me, holding both of my hands. When we get to the medical station, she's not allowed to come in with me. Too many people in there, according to the smirking Peacekeepers.  
  
I want my knife. I want to cut the smirks off of their faces.  
  
But that would take more time than I have.  
  
They lead me to a bed behind a curtain, where my mother is lying still against dirty gray sheets. Her arm is splinted, but no one has wasted material putting a real cast on it. Her eyes are glassy, but open. She sees me, and the corners of her mouth twitch slightly.  
  
"Haymitch?" she whispers.  
  
I go to her and kneel beside the bed, holding her good hand tightly. "Momma."  
  
"Is your brother hurt?"  
  
I nod. I decide not to tell her that he's more than hurt. Not now. Not when I can almost feel her life seeping out with the blood on her bandages. What good would it do her to know? "He couldn't come," I say.  
  
She nods. "Tell him I love him."  
  
"He knows that, Mom. I know it, too."  
  
She raises her hand and strokes my cheek. "My clever boy," she says. "I'm proud of you. You… you're going to be something… extraordinary. Wish I could… see."  
  
"We're going to get you fixed up. We'll fix everything from the accident, and we'll take you to the Capitol, and I'll _make_ them give you new lungs…"  
  
"Haymitch, you know better. You know the truth."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes." She lowers her hand and presses it against mine again. "Don't look away from the truth. Don't you dare. You've always seen so clearly about everything else. You need to see clearly about me now, Haymitch."  
  
"I don't want you to go."  
  
"I know that."  
  
I can't think of anything else to say. The numbness that's been on me all afternoon while they dug is ripped away, and I start to cry. I sit beside my mother, and I put my head on her stomach, and I cry like an infant.  
  
She runs her fingers through my hair.  
  
"I'm sorry," I say. "Momma, I'm so sorry."  
  
"No, hush. I'm glad to be the momma one more time."  
  
"It's my fault. I shouldn't have --"  
  
"Stop it. You remember what I said this morning."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Don't you… ever… forget it."  
  
She shivers and I get up to wrap a blanket around her, but by the time I'm actually on my feet, she's gone.  
  
Just like that.  
  
I call the med-tech, but I don't really need him to tell me that she's gone. I can see it. It doesn't matter. I scream for him to get Ruth Keyton, but that doesn't matter, either. Ruth anoints Mom with some kind of herb ointment, but it doesn't do anything.  
  
I am vaguely aware of screaming. I know that Digger is trying to stop me, but it doesn't work. Maysilee is also telling me I need to stop before I say something I shouldn't. I don't care. It's finally Danny and one of the Seam kids who subdue me, though I think someone might drug me before they do.  
  
I'm pulled out into the night and put into a car, and then I'm out in the dark. Alone.  
  
I am searching for Mom and Lacklen. I can hear Lacklen calling me, but I can't figure out how to get to where he is. Mom tells me to turn around and go home, but of course, there is no home anymore. The big bad wolf has huffed and puffed and blown it all down.  
  
I wander for a long time in the dark. Now and then, I hear voices calling me, but I ignore them. They aren't what I'm looking for. I can't get to what I'm looking for. After a while, I just sit down in the empty darkness and wait to die.  
  
I have no understanding at all of where I am when I open my eyes. Some kind of huge hall, with dark wood furniture, and a poster of a half-naked girl who I don't know on the wall.  
  
They promised that would come down.  
  
I blink. The room becomes almost familiar. I've been in it before, anyway.  
  
It's my house in Victors' Village. I'm in my room. If it weren't for that damned poster, I could believe I'd only dreamed about my house collapsing. But I'd never put that thing up. Mom says it's disrespectful to stare at women like that.  This hasn't generally stopped me from looking, but it would sure as hell stop me from putting up that poster in a place she'd see it.  
  
I want Mom and Lacklen. I _need_ them. I get up out of my bed, still thinking in a confused way that it could all be some kind of nasty trick. I move across the room.  
  
I tear down the poster. Rip it to shreds. Leave the shreds on the floor.  
  
I go to Mom's room. She was so happy to have a nightgown. Pretty clothes. I imagine going into her closet, sitting there among the fine dresses she was given, and mourning her. Maybe I will take some books from the shelves, the ones Lacklen was so delighted with, and hold them.  
  
I stop when I open her closet door.  
  
There's nothing there. All of her clothes have been removed.  
  
I try to scream, but it just comes out in a few harsh gasps.  
  
I stumble out, go to Lacklen's room. His clothes are gone. The props they put in the room to shoot the tour are gone. It's cold and empty and totally anonymous. He was never here.  
  
I rip out one of the shelves that housed his shoes yesterday, the shoes he'll never get to wear. I swing it at the wall and take out a chunk of plaster. Break the mirror over the dresser. Smash some anonymous pictures on the wall.  
  
I am screaming again.  
  
Strong hands grip my arms and someone takes the shelf away from me. I don't care who it is. I manage to get one arm free, and I strike out with a closed fist. It connects with someone's flesh, but no one hits me back.  
  
In fact, someone comes up close to me. Puts her arms around me.  
  
"Shh. Haymitch, stop it. You need to stop. Your mother wouldn’t want you doing this."  
  
"Digger?"  
  
"It's me. It's me."  
  
My head fills up with self-disgust. It slides over my brain like cold slime. "I hit you."  
  
"Your fist was swinging. I got in the way of it to stop it."  
  
"I _hit_ you."  
  
The pressure on my other arm lets up. "You're not going to do it anymore, are you?" a voice says.  
  
It's Danny. My friend. Who has now seen me punch my girl.  
  
I sink down onto Lacklen's bed and put my face in my hands. I can't look at either of them. I look between my hands at the bare floor, now lightly floured with plaster dust.  
  
Digger sits beside me, and I feel her small hand on the back of my neck, rubbing in small circles. I hear a chair being pulled over, and the toes of Danny's big shoes come into my field of vision, along with the frayed cuffs of his jeans.  
  
"What can we do for you?" he asks.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"I guess there wouldn't be," he says. "But we're going to stay as much as we can, anyway. The Peacekeepers keep making rounds -- supposedly about curfew-- so we'll have to leave pretty soon today, but we'll be back. You be here when we get here."  
  
"I'm not leaving," Digger says.  
  
I shake my head. "Do everything they say." I laugh. It sounds crazy. "Little pig, little pig, let me in."  
  
They don't say anything to this. I guess they figure I _am_ crazy, and they're probably right.  
  
"There's a pot of chamomile tea in the kitchen," Danny says. "Come on downstairs. We can have some tea until the Peacekeepers come."  
  
I don't want tea. I let them lead me downstairs anyway. Danny pours me a large mug of tea. He and Digger each tack a small teacup. I guess this is one of Ruth's medicinal brews. If so, it doesn't do anything I can recognize.  
  
Digger tells me that I've been sleeping for four days. People have been coming around during the day to make sure I don't wake up alone. "We were afraid you'd wake up at night," she says. "They won't let anyone be here after curfew. Merle Undersee comes as early as they let him in to do the caretaking."  She smiles faintly.  "I think he's ready to start our own fan club since you defended him about the hedges."  
  
Danny nudges my hand and pushes at some kind of printed napkin. I ignore it.  
  
They've already buried Mom and Lacklen. No one says this, but I know it's because there's no one in District Twelve who does embalming, and they couldn't very well just leave the bodies hanging around until I came to my senses. They have been waiting for me, though, to have a memorial.  
  
The Peacekeepers show up ten minutes later and frog march Digger and Danny out, with an admonition not to let them find them here again.  
  
I sit alone in my kitchen. The bar is handy. I could drink. I could drink a lot. I wonder if there are some kind of painkillers upstairs in the bathroom medicine cupboard. Maybe, if I took enough of them with whiskey, no one would have to worry about me again.  
  
The idea has its merits. I can't actually think of any downside, except that I promised Maysilee that I'd remember her, and dead people can't remember anyone. She'd understand, though. This is too much. At least if I'm dead, I can't annoy Snow enough to kill anyone else.  
  
I pick up my mug, which I've only drunk about half of, and I spot the napkin Danny was trying to push at me. It's covered with writing -- not real writing, but the shorthand I made up for school, the code we used for Maysilee's meetings, which seem to have happened so long ago that I've almost forgotten how to read it. It looks like squiggles and strange pictures. I spot a big insect, which Danny has drawn much better than I'd ever bother with.  
  
I frown at it. I invented this. I can remember it.  
  
It starts to resolve itself, to make sense. There's not a lot that can be expressed this way, and certainly no nuance.  
  
 _Careful. House seems bugged._ There's picture of bread, which I take to mean Danny himself, since I know I didn't make bread mean anything. There's an arrow pointing from it to more words: _Explain in town._  
  
I throw it in the trash, and pour the chamomile tea in after it. It swims in a garbagy muck, and the whole thing dissolves into mush.  
  
So they think my house is bugged.  
  
The bare, unfocused rage I felt in Lacklen's room suddenly becomes tight and clear. And cold. Not only did they kill my family, and Maysilee, and Beech and Gilla and all the others -- not only did they make their things disappear, so it would look like they never existed at all -- not only those things, but they've put me in this rich looking prison so they can look down and listen in on me any time they want to. It's like being in the arena, except with no audience to appeal to, just the Gamemakers.  
  
I try to think of what I can do that won't end up with someone else dead. Suicide seems like my best bet, but I figure there must be some reason that Duronda put it off as long as she did, and that I've never heard of anyone else doing it. Then again, the rest of Panem has probably not heard that Duronda did. The news played it as an accident.  
  
I turn this over. Snow would probably make it look like an accident, too, especially if I involved the bar in it. But what really stops me is understanding _why_ he'd do that. The victors are supposed to be happy. We're supposed to be all about hope.  
  
If I trashed that image, I have a feeling a lot of people would pay for it. Duronda had been more or less forgotten by the audience by the time she died. I'm still the fresh new victor with the great big, pretty house.  
  
Reluctantly, I take suicide off my mental table. It would be easy on my end, but it would leave everyone else with a big mess. Maybe a lethal one. No one ever says it, but everyone knows that the families of arena suicides are punished. Mom said not to let worries like that stop me from doing what was right, but I can't lie to myself well enough to pretend that suicide was what she had in mind.  
  
Almost anything I do directly will end up on my friends, and everyone knows who they are, because they've been getting themselves in trouble every day trying to come up and stay with me. If I burn down my house -- which is _very_ appealing; burn the thing down and hope the bugs scream in the ears of everyone listening until they go crazy -- they'll burn something else down. Maybe Maysilee's parents' shop. Maybe Danny's bakery. Maybe the Community Home. I can't see them hesitating. They killed their own film crew.  
  
I get up and walk around my house in a daze. I try to read a few of the books, but the words won't come together. I can't understand why I'm sleepy, if I've slept for four days, but I am.  
  
I go outside to clear my head. There's a pair of Peacekeepers on patrol, but they let me be. I'm a victor. I have the run of Victors' Village. There are large lights keeping the place lit up.  
  
I go to the green and sit down on one of the ornate little benches, this one beside a little pond, where I can see big yellow fish swimming around. I am not thinking of anything, except whether or not they could actually bug the green. If not, this would be a good place to talk to people.  
  
I curl up finally and sleep on the hard, uncomfortable bench. There's an early fall breeze blowing, and it brings me to the windy hillside in the arena. I am not surprised to be there.  
  
Maysilee is sitting in the spot where she died. Her hair is long again, and all of the little marks of the arena are gone. I sit beside her.  
  
"Suicide, Haymitch?" she says. "This is your idea of a good solution?"  
  
"I'm not doing it."  
  
"Fine, but it's still a dumb idea to have even gotten into your head.  You're supposed to be smart. Did we get you through the Games just for you to die? Do you want to stick next year's tributes with _Drake_?"  
  
"I hadn't thought about that."  
  
She bites her lip and looks up toward the cliff. "Don't you wonder why they're so mad about it? Why Snow's so scared of you that's cutting you off at the knees before you get a chance to do anything?"  
  
"Not really. I don't care. Probably because I was shouting about killing everyone after they killed you."  
  
She gives me a brief laugh. "Yes, that _might_ have something to do with it."  
  
"Are you really here?"  
  
She doesn't answer. "You can't possibly be the only one to scream at them. You can't be the only one to threaten to kill them. I doubt you're the only tribute who's ever been smart enough to figure out the arena. Beetee could have."  
  
"But he didn't. He had electricity. He could have knocked the thing out."  
  
"Right. He didn't." She looks back at me, and she's so beautiful I can't breathe. She rolls her eyes. "Don't expect this to turn into that kind of dream. I'm not done with you yet. I'm not wasting my time on someone who thinks running away is the way to go."  
  
I look down. "I'm sorry."  
  
"You promised me you'd take them down. _That's_ what they're afraid of. Because you have the anger -- which is pretty common -- and you have the brains, which aren't unique. And because you think like them."  
  
I draw back. "Thanks a lot."  
  
"No, I just mean… you understand the way they think. You know that. And that's why they're afraid of you. Because you attack them on their own terms."  
  
"My mother and brother are dead."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I don't want to start killing anyone's family."  
  
"I said you _think_ like them, not that you _are_ like them." She sighs. "It won't work piecemeal, Haymitch. Every little breach you make, they'll punish, and then they'll make it go away."  
  
"So what am I supposed to do?"  
  
"I told you a long time ago. If we can strike at the same time, they don't stand a chance."  
  
I sniff at this. "That's a big 'if.'"  
  
"Not as big as it used to be." She looks up, and suddenly, she's Seeder. Then Chaff. Then Beetee. Then Gia.  
  
"I can't bring them into this," I say.  
  
She becomes Maysilee again. "Who says _you're_ bringing _them?_ " She smiles. "Come on, Haymitch. What did you _see?_ "  
  
Something knocks against the side of the bench and I fall out, waking myself up sharply on the ground. I turn around and see Merle, who has backed into me during his morning rounds. He makes a lot of apologetic noises, then says out of the corner of his mouth, "Peacekeepers are getting suspicious. You better get home. They're waiting."  
  
I nod and head back to my house. Lucretia Beckett herself is here again. Her eyes flicker over me, and I realize that my tee shirt is see-through from a night in the dew. Considerably worse… well, it's morning.  
  
I ignore this. "What do you want?"  
  
"You have a communication from the Capitol."  
  
"A phone call?"  
  
"No." She holds out a very official looking envelope.  
  
I take it and open it. It bears the seal of the Treasurer. There are two pages. The first is a statement of my first month of victor's salary, a sum that it would take me twenty years in the mines to acquire.  I can access my funds at the bank, where I have an account set up.  I'd forgotten we <i>had</i> a bank.  It's in the basement of the Justice Building. The second is a bill for half of that amount, already deducted.  
  
They've fined me for the shoddy construction work on the house on the Seam, and I've been held responsible for the injuries to the production crew.  
  
I throw it in the trash and go upstairs to change. Beckett can let herself out.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Haymitch's mother and brother are buried, he tries to keep his friends out of harm's way.

Death in District Twelve is a common visitor, and no one has a habit of putting on company best for it. We dress decently and in clean clothes for funerals, but that's about it. Someone puts a black wreath on the door. I don't know who put mine up -- my best guess is Merle, since he does most of the decorating in the Village -- but it's there. Generally speaking, friends and neighbors dig the grave. I've dug a few myself, even though I wasn't exactly anyone's friend. It's just a thing you do from time to time if you're a guy with a strong back.   
  
The tributes are buried by the Capitol in their own section of the graveyard, marked by a large, shared stone. The Capitol treats this as an honor; we know better. It's one last slap in the face. Even our dead are no longer our own, to be sent off with our own manner of marking the occasion. Duronda is buried there as well, though she's particularly marked as a victor. I guess I will be, too, though I'd rather be here under the maple tree.  
  
Mom's and Lacklen's graves were dug by the miners Mom worked with, the same ones who dug Daddy's grave. There's not much space left in the cemetery -- and it's not like anyone has enough land to have a family burial site, least of all us (and of course, no one can be buried in Victors' Village, since it would spoil the image) -- so they're nearly touching each other in the earth, at least according to Digger. It's hard to tell from above. I stand there before the memorial meeting, staring at the turned earth, and am horribly ashamed. I broke. I couldn't even see them into the ground decently.  
  
I've ordered a marker for all three of them. I talked to some officious twit in the Capitol, who wanted me to put some kind of holographic display up. State of the art, what everyone is doing for the fashionable dead these days. I know my Mom, though. I thought of her laughing at the ridiculous fashions of the Capitol. I wasn't about to subject her to a mortuary form of them. I told him a simple stone would do, with their full names. He had to be corrected on the spelling several times, and treated me like I was too stupid to realize that their names aren't _real_ names. I told him that an undertaker named Hilarius would do well not to comment. Digger who was there with me, looked surprised that I made something resembling a joke, but it was the first thing I'd done that felt normal in so long that I'd almost forgotten what that meant.   
  
The stone will arrive on the next train. I will also build a grave house, to keep them safe here, but I will do that with my own hands. I can do that much.  
  
I hear the low tolling of the bell beginning at the bottom of the hill, where a simple wooden platform makes a gathering space. It tolls twelve times for Lacklen, pauses, then tolls forty-two for Mom. One ring for every year of their lives. I don't know how this started. I don't care.  
  
I only know it means that I have to leave them now and go to the memorial. They've waited for me long enough.  
  
I go down. I speak. I don't know what I say, really. I ramble. I know people will whisper that I'm drunk, and I sound it, but I'm not. I will be later. I have promised myself that if I can get through this without going crazy, I will shut the door and drink until the world goes away, at least long enough for this to scab over in my mind. But right now, I'm stone sober. But what do you say? What do you say about a twelve year old boy whose greatest delight was his first pair of glasses? Or a woman who knew she was coming to the end, only to have whatever days remained to her ripped away?  
  
I just talk until I run out of words, then Digger holds me while their other friends give memories. Miners remember Mom's strong back, and the clever ways she would find to make the work easier on everyone. Kids from school talk about Lacklen's sense of humor. I think some of them made fun of him and made his life miserable, but at least they're not ridiculing his death. I let the hypocrisy pass. They probably believe themselves at this point.  
  
At the end, Glen sings an old, mournful sounding tune that is at almost all the funerals, though no one knows where it came from or what it's about.  
  
Once it's over, there's usually food for the bereaved, but everyone knows I don't need to worry about starving anymore, and I told them not to bring me anything. Other people need it more than I do. I asked Danny to come over and use my food and my kitchen to make something for everyone, and he's made a hardy stew and a lot of breads. I tried to pay him. He didn't let me, though I finally talked him into allowing me to owe him a favor.  
  
Mom had a lot of friends from her days in the mines, and most of them come to talk to me and tell me how they'll miss her. I resist the urge to tell them that I don't remember their names, because they've been superstitiously avoiding her since she started to show the first signs of miners' cough.  
  
I walk through the crowd, not sure what to say to anyone. I hear the old people saying ominously that deaths always come in three, and I need to be watched carefully. They draw x-shapes in the air to ward this off, but they all look quite self-satisfied at their grim foreknowledge. I'd point out that, at last count, the latest round of deaths was hovering at around fifty-one, but it seems like too much trouble to argue about it. They wouldn't count the tributes from other districts or the Capitol camera crew, anyway. I don't know why I count the crew, except that they were people, and they're dead, and it's my fault. Snow killed _his own people_ just because they were in the line of fire.  
  
The crowd finally disperses, and I mean to go back to Victors' Village, but Danny catches me and nods toward the square.  
  
"Right now?" Digger asks.  
  
"I can't think of any time people would be less suspicious of Haymitch's friends wanting to be around him."  
  
She nods.  
  
I let myself be led into town. We meet in Herk Donner's stationery shop, in Maysilee's spot in the basement. "We've combed it back to front for bugs," Digger says. "It's safe enough."  
  
We sit down on the floor in a rough circle -- me, Digger, Danny, Ruth, Maysilee's sister, Glen Everdeen. Merle Undersee appears just before Danny starts talking, even though he wasn't in the group before. He gives me a quick wave and sits down.  
  
"Look, Haymitch, you have to be careful in your house," Danny says. "It's bugged."  
  
"You said that in your note."  
  
"I was talking to Ruth about Maysilee," Kaydilyn says. "I said something about how angry she'd be -- nothing even really, you know, rebellious. I said I was going to write a song. Dumb, I know. But when I got to school, they confiscated my guitar and smashed it. Too much of a coincidence. They heard me."  
  
I shrug. I am not surprised.  
  
"You can beat the bugs a little bit," Merle offers. "I heard some of the sound techs -- "  
  
"Wait a minute," Danny says. "They actually _admitted_ it?"  
  
"They didn't even sound like it was a secret. But they said that they couldn't hear anything while I was out trimming hedges, at least when the window was open. They pick up lots of outside noises. It makes it hard to listen."  
  
"Great," I say. "I'll just keep a hedge trimmer in my bedroom so they don't hear me talk in my sleep."  
  
"A vacuum cleaner would work," Digger suggests. "There's one in your front closet."  
  
"Running water, too." Kaydilyn bites her lip. "I would think so, anyway. If they're strong enough to pick up people whispering, then they're going to pick up every ambient sound going."  
  
"It's still not the safest place," I say. I don't trust any of their little fix-its. There's no fixing what the Capitol does.  
  
"Probably not," Danny agrees.   
  
"So," Ruth says, "here's what we need to do. You need to come into town every day, and we can all meet and help you out with whatever you need -- "  
  
"No."  
  
They all look at me.  
  
"No," I say again. "Here's what we need to do. You all stop playing games and pretending to be spies. You get back to your lives, and hope you don't end up Reaped next year, because I don't know if I can keep you alive if the Gamemakers want you dead. You let me go back to Victors' Village, and you leave me the hell alone up there."  
  
"No way," Danny says. "We're your friends."  
  
"My friends wouldn't want me to have their messy deaths on my conscience."  
  
Digger gets to her feet. "If you think we're going to leave you alone up there to drink yourself to death, you just think again. I'd never betray your mother that way, among other things. She made me promise to take care of you after she was gone -- "  
  
I grab her by the shoulders and shout into her face. " _They. Killed. Her._ " I look around. No one looks surprised. "They killed her," I say again. "Do you guys get that? Do you get what it means? They killed Mom and Lacklen, just because they could. Because I gave a speech they didn't like."  
  
"Which is why we need to take them down!" Maysilee -- Kaydilyn -- says, standing up, her eyes burning. "They killed my sister, too. I watched her die on live television. If you think I'm playing games here, think again! Not all of us are just going to lay down and take it anymore!"  
  
"I'm not, either," I say. "Which is exactly why all of you are staying away from me. I'm not giving Snow any more targets."  
  
"I'm your wife," Digger says quietly.  
  
I turn away from her. "I don't remember any papers to that effect."  
  
She grabs my arm and swings me around to her, then slaps me across the face. I imagine that the red mark looks about the same as the bruise I left on hers.  
  
"Do you really think they'd scruple at killing my wife?" I ask her. "Or if we had kids, do you think they'd make it much past their twelfth birthday, even if they did manage to make it that far?" I shake my head. "You made a promise. You promised to go on. Go keep that promise."  
  
"I promised to move on if you didn't come back."  
  
"I _didn't_. I'm never going to. I'm always going to be in the arena, and anyone who's around me is in it with me. And in case you forgot, I didn't turn out to be very good at keeping my ally alive."  
  
There is stunned silence at this. They think I'm crazy. I can almost feel them telegraphing it around their circle.  
  
I'm not, though. Not on this. And if I need proof of it, I only have to go back up the hill to the base of the maple tree. I only have to look at the freshly turned earth there.  
  
I go up the stairs and out of the shop without looking back, though I can hear Digger screaming my name.  
  
People try to talk to me as I push through town. They try to _touch_ me. I push them away. I don't know what I look like. The worse the better. Maybe they won't follow me out. Maybe they'll stop offering to help me. Maybe they'll let me get away from them, and get them out of the Capitol's sights.  
  
I storm up to the cemetery. There's nothing at Mom and Lacklen's grave to talk to yet. Instead, I go down to the huge Capitol memorial, the tributes of District Twelve. Sure enough, they've put up laser drawn, color pictures of this year's tributes. In the damned parade outfits, no less. They are etched onto brass nameplates. I reach for Maysilee's and try to pull it off. I hate the Capitol. Hate it. I hate that they've done this to her.  
  
Hate that I've let them.  
  
I lose what little grip I had on the plate and fall backward with the force of the pull.  
  
Maysilee is looking down at me, alarmed. "Haymitch, what are you doing?"  
  
"They put you in that stupid outfit. The one Drake was trying to whore you out in. I was just trying to get rid of it."  
  
"Haymitch, it's -- "  
  
"It's not okay. It's not. None of this is. Why didn't you come back?"  
  
"Haymitch, it's me. _Kay._ "  
  
I blink. "Kay," I try.  
  
She nods and reaches down to help me up. "You need to get home and go to sleep."  
  
I knock her hand away and get up on my own.   
  
I walk back to Victors' Village without stopping until I see the pair of Peacekeepers on patrol. I signal to them.  
  
The look at each other disbelievingly -- Peacekeepers are not in a habit of being _summoned_ \-- then come over.  
  
"What can we do for you?" the ask.  
  
"I don’t want anyone in here today," I tell them. "Turn them away. Even if it's before curfew. They're not supposed to be up here, and they're not invited."  
  
"Very well," one of them says. "Anything else?"  
  
"No. That's all."  
  
I go to my house and unlock the door. "Hey!" I call to the bugs. "You listening? I'm sick of them worrying about me and yelling at me. No one's coming up here. I don't give a damn about anyone. Do you hear me? In the Capitol? Do you hear me, Snow? I don't care about any of them."  
  
I slam the door. I can feel hot tears behind my eyes, but I don't let them come. I'm not going to go crazy in here anymore, not where they're watching me. I go to the bar and pour myself something that looks dark and rich. I smell it before I taste it. The fumes go straight to my head, and seem to wrap up everything roiling around inside in a thick blanket.  
  
I drink it in one gulp. It hits like fire, and I sit down on the floor beside the living room door. Someone has delivered mail to me. It must have come through the slot in the door. Three letters, all hand-addressed. I've heard of things like this, but mostly, in District Twelve, people just knock on each other's doors to share news. If there are letters here, they're from out of the district.  
  
I pick them up curiously. Each is addressed to me by my full name, with my house number, in Victors' Village, District Twelve. Each has been opened, so anything subversive has probably been removed.  
  
The first is from Caesar. It's written on his official stationery, with an etched picture of him laughing in one corner, with a handwritten apology for its presence. He's scratched it out with a marker. It's a long letter, and he tells me about conversations he had with Mom, and how he'd heard good things about Lacklen from the doctor he'd sent out here. It's strangely comforting to hear someone else tell stories about them.  
  
The second is from Gia. She writes on thick, creamy paper with an avian-themed border. Doves, I think, though she must have been restless and doodled, since about half of them are colored black. I frown. Not just black. Black with white patches on the wings. Gia has turned her dove border into mockingjays.  
  
 _What do you see?_ Maysilee asked me in my dream.  
  
I see nothing. I refuse to see anything. Gia is much safer if I don't see a thing.  
  
Her note is short, but very nice.  
  
 _Dear Haymitch,  
My heart is breaking for you -- after everything, to lose the family who I know meant so much to you. I haven't forgotten that you asked for permission to write to them. How I wish I'd been able to let you! I found out recently that no one else has ever asked.  
  
I know you must be hurting terribly, and I wish I could think of anything at all I could do to help you through this. I can't. All I can do is let you know that I am your friend, and if you need something -- anything at all, even if it seems strange or silly -- you can pick up your phone and call me, night or day.  
  
With love and deepest sympathy,  
Gia  
  
P.S.: They won't postpone the victory tour this winter. I will help you get ready, since I imagine that, even in a few months, it will be the last thing you're thinking of. You just think of something you can do for a talent, and I'll take care of everything else._  
  
I read it over again. Look at the little mockingjays around the border. I hope whoever read my mail before I got home didn't look too closely at the latter. Gia can't afford to get any closer to trouble than she already is.  
  
The last letter is from Seeder and Chaff in District Eleven. Seeder wrote it, with Chaff by her side. They thought that they pretty much wanted to say the same things -- that they're sorry, that they know what I'm going through (I have a vague memory of hearing that Seeder was widowed as a young woman), and that they will be by my side. "Your mom will be by your side, too," Seeder has written. "I believe that in my bones. The ones we've lost never really leave us."  
  
I put the letters together and take them to my study. I put them in the desk drawer, and I sit and don't think.  
  
I continue not thinking for the next few hours. I just go around my house, wandering from window to window. I look in the refrigerator several times. I have another drink. The shadows start to fill the house.  
  
I go to the living room and turn on the television, but not the lights. I curl up on the couch with a fine down blanket to keep me warm.  
  
Capitol programming, as usual, is boring. I decide this is all right. I wouldn't mind being bored. Being bored sounds relaxing.  
  
Tonight's offering is a show about a private detective and his little daughter. They supposedly live in District Four, but I recognize several Capitol streets, and I'd guess the "sea shore" is really the lake. I have no idea what the mystery is tonight. It involves them swimming through an underwater cave, which takes a long time. The villain is waiting for them at the end of it, when they come up through the pool in his lair.  
  
I wonder why he didn't just plug up his end of the cave if he knew they were coming. This seems very obvious, and I think about it obsessively while they wrap up whatever the plot really was. After it's over, there's a dance contest, where, as far I can tell, every contestant strives to look stupider than the one before. They put a great deal of energy into it, and almost no costuming. I consider turning it off, but that seems like it would be too much trouble. I pull my blanket over my head to go to sleep.  
  
The news comes on. I'd ignore this, too, but I hear Glen Everdeen's voice.  
  
I lower the blanket. The angle is distant and tortured, but I recognize it well enough. Someone filmed the memorial.  
  
I can't even find the energy to be outraged. I just feel dumbly embarrassed, especially when then manage to catch a few words that I said, where I did, indeed, sound quite drunk.   
  
The anchors don't ridicule me, but they do make pitying _tsk-tsk_ sounds, and experts are invited on to analyze my aberrant behavior. Someone dug up something about Dad's drinking, and they go on about it for five minutes, discussing how drunkenness is known to pass in the genes, and isn't it a terrible shame? They go out to do interviews on the street.  
  
"What a way to send your mother off!" a matron says with a scold in her voice. "It's shameful."  
  
Several more come on in this vein, then a young girl with my picture on a tee shirt says, "It was beautiful, and I feel so sad for him! I wish I could go right out there and comfort him."  
  
I throw my shoe at the television, but it doesn't make it all the way. I'm pretty sure there's a button to push to turn it off remotely, but I don't know where it is. The news finishes up with my story and goes on to a fluff piece about the golden squirrels in their new habitat in the Mutt Zoo. They are frolicking around, eating steaks and climbing trees while they live out their nasty little lives.  
  
After the news, there's a whole special about me and my tragic circumstances. They actually show footage that the cameraman got while the house was falling. I see my brother impaled with something, but thankfully, the footage is grainy and at a terrible angle. If the cameraman weren't dead, he'd probably be fired for it. I hear Mom scream. Then it's just a lot of broken wood. More girls seem to want to come out and comfort me as well, and several profess their undying love, and how it's been made stronger by terrible tragedy. A couple of them express the view that they could help me stop drinking, if only I'd let them love me enough.  
  
"I've read a lot of stories about people who are drunk a lot," one says. "There's so much _pain_ …" I have started drinking again, and I picture her as a vampire, sinking her teeth into my head and feeding on my delicious levels of agony. She looks almost drunk on it long distance.  
  
The television is still on when I fall asleep, and it's still on in the morning. I can hear Merle's gardening machines somewhere nearby. I guess I can't stop him from taking care of the rest of the Village.  I don't even really have the energy to tell him not to do my garden anymore.  
  
Someone knocks on my door.  
  
"Go away!" I yell.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere!"  
  
It's Digger's voice. "Go away!" I yell again.  
  
"No." Since I don't answer the door, she comes to the living room window and knocks on it. I stare at her. The window faces east, and the dawn is surrounding her with fire. "Haymitch, let me in!"  
  
I go to the window. It doesn't open. That's fine. "Go home!" I yell through it. I see a blur of motion behind her.  
  
She looks over her shoulder, then turns quickly and puts her hands on her head.  
  
Two Peacekeepers grab her.  
  
"Hey!" I yell as they drag her off the porch. "Hey!"  I go to the door and run out. "You don't need to drag her!"  
  
"I believe it's your orders we're enforcing," one says smugly.  
  
Digger looks at me, her eyes hurt.  
  
Fine. Better hurt than dead.  
  
"He doesn’t know what he's doing," she says. "I'm his wife!"  
  
They don't have the slightest interest in her argument. The pull her to a little cart and drive her away.  
  
I stand on my porch, cold and hung over. Merle looks at me from behind his wheelbarrow, where I can now see that the tarp has been pulled back. It's nowhere near full. He smuggled her in.  
  
I consider telling on him, but decide not to.  
  
It's over now. At least she'll know better than to try that again.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Haymitch buries his family, he buries himself in alone in his house in Victors' Village, barring his friends from contacting him.

The Peacekeepers are apparently zealous about their duty, because I see no one for the next week, except for brief glimpses of Merle Undersee working on the grounds. I always wait for him to leave before I go outside.  
  
Sometimes I don't get around to going outside.  
  
My days are simple. I sleep until mid-morning -- it gets later every day -- and then I get up and take a long shower. I've gotten to like some of the settings I ran from in the Capitol, like one that shoots hard jets of water, alternating between scalding and freezing. I stand there and let it hit me until my skin starts to turn red. I don't know if I get particularly clean from this. When I'm finished showering, I put on whatever clothes are closest at hand. Most of them have made their way out of the closet and onto the floor, and I walk over them. What do I care? They're Capitol property, and if I die, they'll just be taken back to the Capitol.  
  
Not that I don't enjoy them. Sometimes, I get drunk and try all of them on, even the crazy ones. Nothing is as crazy as Capitol wear, though. Things like that aren't allowed in the districts, probably to our benefit.  
  
Mostly, though, I wander the house, a glass in my hand (sometimes a bottle), and I look out the windows, and I end up in front of the television. I'm still a favorite topic of comedians and sketch troupes, who play me as drunk out of my mind and bragging about how smart I am.  They mostly don't pay attention to Mom's or Lacklen's death.  One tried adding it in as a gag.  I didn't see it, but there are outraged stories about my fans screaming that it's tasteless.

The scripted shows are starting to catch up, editing in topical commentary (at least it's mostly not jokes) though most of them were in the can before all this started. There are even rumors that the stupidest show I've ever seen -- a daily soap opera called _Seagull Point_ , which is about kids who are too rich, too fashionable, and too bored -- is going to do a whole plot about how one of the misery-laden characters becomes famous and then loses everything and becomes a drunk. Having watched four episodes now, I can pretty much guarantee that the main girl (who might be very pretty under the wigs and makeup) will somehow or other make everything okay, at least until it's time for the next plot to gin up.  
  
I should watch. Maybe they'll have some tips about how everything can be all right after watching your little brother get impaled on national television, and having the president threaten to kill everyone else. I'm sure that somehow or other, the answer will involve skimpy clothes that tend to land on the floor at least twice an episode.  
  
Sometime in the evening, I generally fall asleep on the couch, or maybe pass out. I'm not always clear on which it is. I dream about the arena. I see Maysilee's mockingjay rising from the volcano, but I am choking on the ash, and I can't tell anyone about it. When I finally find my voice, there's no one left to tell. Sometimes I wake up crying. Other times, the dream just fades into an endless walk along the cliff. I know Maysilee is behind me, and if I turn, I'll see her rotting in her grave clothes, still stained with long congealed blood. The fact that I never turn around to look at her in the dream doesn't change the fact that I know this.  
  
If I drink enough, I can sometimes just pass out into the blackness. Maybe I dream, maybe I don't, but I don't remember it, and I don't wake up from it.  
  
My bottles are starting to get lighter. I will need to find out where I can re-stock. My food is still fine. There's still more from the initial stock of the house than I ever had at one time before. Some of it may even be going rotten, and the breads are stale. I don't want to go to town. I don't want to find the bank, which is where I can access my salary. I don't want to go up to the discreet little building where they sell liquor. I don't want to go to the butcher for meat, even though I can. I definitely don't want to go to the bakery.  
  
Finally, on a morning where I have a pounding headache, but no particular dream fragments in my head, I decide that I have to at least run my errands. If nothing else, I owe Merle for the gardening he's been doing, even though I haven't talked to him while he does it, and I have to go to the bank to access the money. I don't like owing people.  
  
I put it off still, taking another long shower and trying out a few different outfits. I settle on jeans and a red shirt made of some kind of soft and smooth material. There are sunglasses in a drawer, and I grab a pair, because even walking by the windows is enough for the sunlight to attack my eyes. I imagine it feels something like my knife felt to Filigree.  
  
I shudder. I haven't thought about that much since I got home. Other things in the arena, sure. The tendons in Crispus Bidwell's neck. Sigh Tomby's melted face. Maysilee. Always Maysilee. But not that fight with Filigree. Not sitting there in wait, trying to figure out the best way to kill the crazy bitch.  
  
I feel my mind circling in on it. I push it away, but it keeps trying to sneak in. The fight with the Careers was self-defense. What I did to Filigree was premeditated murder.  
  
Of course, she was pretty enthusiastically trying to do the same to me, as my gut tends to remind me if I drink enough to actually throw up.  
  
I am standing at my front door, my hand raised to the doorknob. I make myself reach the rest of the way, turn it, and step outside.  
  
It's a very hot July morning, and I'm already queasy from the hangover. I'm glad I didn't eat anything, or it would be all over my porch.  
  
I go to the front rail and lean over the rosebushes, just in case, but nothing happens.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
I look up (the world swims for a minute, then steadies) and find Merle, who was apparently working next door, doing something that didn't make much noise. "I'm fine," I say. I head for the porch stairs and go down onto the green, trying to look like I'm not dizzy, like my head isn't filled with crushed up rocks, like my throat isn't clogged up with volcanic ash.  
  
I've made it about halfway to the Village gate when I hear a little hum beside me. Merle is trailing along, driving an electric cart.  
  
"I'm headed into town," he says. "Want a ride?"  
  
I want to say no, but I don't. My gummed up stomach is protesting the walk already, and it gets the final vote. I climb in beside Merle. "I didn't know you drove up here."  
  
He shrugs. "Once a month, I come up with the weed killers. It's better not to bounce them around in the wheelbarrow, so we rent this from the mines."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Everyone will be glad you're up and about. Your girl's just about crazy worrying about you, you know." He gives me a reproachful look. I don't answer it. He continues. "Every day when I get back, she's all over me to see if I've seen you. Don't worry. I haven't told her about you being drunk. That's your business -- "  
  
"Gee, thanks."  
  
" -- but if you ask me -- "  
  
"I didn't."   
  
" -- you need to come into town more. My mom always says, if you're going to drink, drink with someone. Drinking alone is bad news."  
  
"You asking for an invite?"  
  
"Me? No. I don't drink."  
  
"Why am I not surprised?"  
  
He frowns. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You're just… pretty chipper for someone stuck in District Twelve."  
  
"I like District Twelve." We leave the narrow path that forms the neck connecting the town to Victors' Village, and come out onto the beginning of Main Street. We pass a few run down shacks. Merle waves to an old woman, and she waves back. "See, everyone here is mostly nice." He catches my look of disbelief. "Okay, maybe not _everyone_. But even the ones who aren't naturally nice have to be nice sometimes, because of the rules."  
  
"The rules."  
  
"Yeah. Like, you bringing food to people when they get married, or saving up to get bread and salt for them when they get a new house."  
  
"I thought that was just down on the Seam."  
  
"Nah. We do it in town, too. No one can afford a whole can of salt alone, though." He shakes his head at the absurdity of such extravagance, then says, "Well, I guess you could, now."  
  
"Great. That'll be my purpose in life. I'll buy salt for people when they get houses."  
  
"See? Now, you're talking."  
  
"I was being sarcastic."  
  
"You shouldn't be. It would be a good thing to do."  
  
We arrive at the Square. Merle swings us past the shoe store and waves to the pale blond boy at the door. The boy -- Eli Cartwright, I remember -- grins and waves back.  
  
"He's my cousin," Merle says. "Well, second cousin, I think. And removed somewhere." He shrugs, and I think of Maysilee saying that she nibbled on Eli Cartwright's earlobe last year. I can't imagine her with him. "Where are you going, anyway?"  
  
I look up. I've almost forgotten, but I manage to say, "Bank. I don’t know where it is, though. I didn't know we had one before."  
  
"Basement of the Justice Building. We all have to go in to take care of loans and taxes and things." He swerves around neatly and stops in front of the Justice Building. I try not to think about the banquet on the night of my return. Merle sizes me up. "Can you find it on your own? Do you need help?"  
  
I get out of the cart. "I'm fine," I say. "I'll ask someone if I can't find it."  
  
"Just go down the stairs you see when you first get in. There are signs in the basement."  
  
I nod. He drives off. Too late, I realize that I didn't explicitly instruct him not to tell anyone I was in town. I guess I better finish up quickly and get on to my next errand before he sends half of District Twelve to the bank.  
  
It's not hard to find my way once I get inside. At the place where I'd normally turn right to head down for tesserae registration, across from the Peacekeepers' headquarters, I turn left and go down the stairs. There's a dingy hallway with efficient but ugly signs to the District Twelve Bank of Panem. Signs hang above various windows indicating tax payments, loan payments, loan applications, and default. An old merchant I don't know is at the last window, looking like a supplicant, while a Capitol liaison listens dispassionately to him. The window just beyond it is "withdrawals." No one is staffing it.  
  
I go up to it and ring a bell.  
  
No one comes right away.  
  
"…and I can make it if I just have another month!" the old merchant says, and I can hear a quaver in his voice. "Come fall, we'll have plenty of customers getting ready for winter. Everyone will need new coats!"  
  
"You are three months behind in your taxes, and your inventory loan hasn't been touched," the liaison says. "You are in default."  
  
"Isn't there something I can do?"  
  
"We will seize your merchandise. That should cover the outstanding debt on it, and the building will revert to government ownership -- "  
  
"But I live in the apartment over it!"  
  
"Then perhaps you should have been more diligent in your payments."  
  
I frown. "How much does he owe?"  
  
The merchant draws up his shoulders. "I don't see how that's your concern."  
  
"I could maybe spot you until you get on your feet."  
  
"That is not permissible," someone says, stepping up to the withdrawal window. "Only a signed borrower may pay loans."  
  
"He would. I'd just be loaning it to him."  
  
The man behind the window wrinkles his nose. "You are not an authorized lender."  
  
"Fine, I'll give it to him."  
  
"You are also not authorized to make grants."  
  
"It's my money!"  
  
"It's all right," the merchant mumbles.  
  
"What do you sell?" I ask.  
  
"Winter coats.  Boots.  Things like that."  
  
"Fine. I'll buy them all. Give them to the people at the community home and down on the Seam."  
  
The merchant flushes and shakes his head. "You can't. There's a limit per customer."  
  
I grind my teeth. "That's stupid."  
  
He manages a sheepish, shamed smile, and ducks out.  
  
The man at my window clears his throat. "May I help you?" he asks, as though we haven't already had a conversation.  
  
I take out what seems like an astronomical sum to buy my groceries and some liquor, and to pay Merle for the gardening, but it barely scratches my salary for the month, even after the fine. I hold the money in my hand for a long time. It seems to weigh a lot. And it doesn't do much good -- it's not really mine if I can't do what I want with it. I toy with the idea of saying I want to have a coat shop as my talent, then giving it back to the old man to run, but I have a feeling they'd find a way to stop that. I can't think of any victors who have shops for a talent. I can't think of any of them who do anything useful, actually.  
  
Including me. I will probably be as useless as the rest of them.  
  
I go back outside. My head is still pounding, but it seems much less important than it did before I had my little lesson in the economics of District Twelve. I wonder how any of the shops stays in business.  
  
I am thinking about this and not looking up, which is why I don't see the line of people at the bottom of the steps of the Justice Building. I nearly walk into Danny Mellark before I realize anyone is there.  
  
He grabs me, turns me around, and sits me down on the steps. The rest of them surround me. Digger is in front of me, her arms crossed over her chest, looking furious. Ruth, her lips pursed in disapproval. Maysilee… Kay… her hands on her hips. Merle, with his innocuous smile.   
  
"I should fire you," I tell Merle.  
  
He shrugs. "I'd still be up on the green every day, and I'd still check on you for Kay."  
  
I look at Kay.  
  
She shrugs. "Maysilee would come back as a haunt and kill me if I let you get away with this."  
  
"It wouldn't be any of Maysilee's business," I say, and get up.  
  
Digger shoves me back down. "You listen to me, Haymitch. No more of this. No more holing up in your place and drinking. No more shutting us out."  
  
"You don't understand."  
  
"The hell I don't," she says. "I loved Rhona and Lacklen, too, you know."  
  
I look at Danny. "Do you have something to add?"  
  
He shrugs. "No, I think the girls have pretty well covered it."  
  
"And you?" I ask Ruth.  
  
"Half of what they're giving you for that wound doesn't go with alcohol."  
  
"They're not giving me anything. They didn't send me home with anything at all. So don't worry about that."  
  
I get up again. This time, Digger doesn't shove me down. She grabs hold of me. "Will you listen, at least? We love you. Especially me, but all of us."  
  
I somehow doubt this of Ruth and Kay, who barely know me, and Merle, who works for me. Actually, I kind of doubt it about Danny, who's my friend, but that's about it. I don't think either of us is about to lay down his life for the other one.  
  
"I've listened," I say. "I'm done listening. Just stay away, okay?"  
  
I push past them and stumble out toward the Village. Digger runs after me and keeps pace, even though I don't answer her, right up until we get within sight of the gate. "Just stop," she says. "Stop it, Haymitch. Now."  
  
I do stop. I don't know why. The smart thing would be to keep on walking.  
  
She takes my hands, then changes her mind and puts her arms around my waist. I know I can't respond. The best thing to do would be to pull away. Push her physically away from me and get her crying. Maybe say something really cruel.  
  
My arms go around her. I hold her so tightly that I'm afraid of breaking her bones.  
  
"I love you," she says against my chest. "I love you, and I can't let you do this to yourself."  
  
I finally manage to pull away. "I can't let you get hurt because of me," I say.  
  
I do push her away, but gently, and I go into the Village. The Peacekeeper at the gate smirks unpleasantly in her direction. I turn around and look at her standing on the far side, the guard holding her back. I want to tell him to let go and let her come to me. But that's not the smart thing. I can't ever let them see that she means anything to me anymore. I'm just another spoiled victor who can't settle for some district girl.  
  
I turn away and head for my house. I'll do my errands some other day -- some day when Merle isn't out here spying.  
  
I get inside, and the smell hits me. Not death and rot, like in the house back on the Seam, but a kind of awful sick smell nonetheless. I look around to see if I've thrown up on the floor, but I don't see anything. It's just the smell of _me_. Of everything I've been doing for the last week.  
  
I start to clean. One rotten thing at a time. Spilled food. An overturned bottle. Empty food boxes and plastic wrappers. The blanket on my couch seems to be the source of the odor. I put it in the washing machine and figure out which buttons to push. It starts churning around.  
  
I go back to the living room and open a window, then go upstairs and start picking up the clothes I've strewn around. I feel better. My head is clearer. I'm not sure why. I've been living in this for a week now, and I haven't gotten sick from it. There aren't any bugs crawling around. No vermin. And it's not like anyone is going to see it.  
  
Still, I'm disgusted with myself, so I keep going.  
  
It's late afternoon when I manage to get everything in some kind of order. It doesn't look like domestics have been through any time in the last ten years, but nothing's on the floor, and the garbage is bagged up. The washing machine has finished, and the blanket is now in the dryer. The sofa kind of stinks, too, but I don't know what to do about that, except let the air in from outside, and sit somewhere else until it fades.  
  
I make myself a sandwich for supper, and I'm careful to put my dishes in the sink when I'm done. I may wash them tomorrow. Mom would like that, I think.  
  
Maybe that could be my talent. Washing my own dishes like a real, grown up person.  
  
There's a knock at the door.  
  
"I told you guys not to come!" I shout.  
  
"Open up, Mr. Abernathy."  
  
I groan. I haven't heard her say much, but I know Lucretia Beckett's voice. I open the door. "I'm not doing anything wrong," I say.  
  
"Of course not." She steps inside. "But it seems your girlfriend is missing."  
  
"What?"  
  
She sighs dramatically. "We went to check on her at the Community Home -- apparently there was a scene of some sort at the bank -- and, oddly, she isn't anywhere to be found."  
  
I know where she most likely is -- off in the woods, hunting -- but I just shrug. "Well, she's not here."  
  
"I'll have to look around. The gate guard said you were embracing her rather intensely. She wouldn't be here to warm your bed for the night, now would she?"  
  
"Even if she were, which she's not, it's my house."  
  
"The Victors' Village is reserved only for victors and their families. Any bedwarmers you have in will be expected to be out before curfew."  
  
"She's not here."  
  
"I'll have a look around anyway," Beckett says. She makes a great show of tossing things out of the way in the laundry room while she searches, and she opens the pantry, and looks in my study, as if Digger might be hiding in the file cabinet. I hear her upstairs, but I don't bother to go with her. She's not going to find anything.  
  
I stay in the living room and look out at my garden. The fence is catching the early evening light, the barbs on the wire throwing out occasional sunbursts.  
  
I hear Beckett talking as she comes down the stairs. She's got a communication device of some kind, and she says, "I see… is that so?" She puts down the antenna and clips it to her belt, then comes into the living room.  
  
I look at her. "What?"  
  
"Well, everything's been covered. And it turns out, your girl has a habit of going out hunting, which isn't legal."  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lie.  
  
"She's in a lot of trouble, if she is." Becket comes over and stands beside me. "I wonder what you could do to take that trouble off of her."  
  
One hot hand comes up and touches my thigh.  
  
I push it away. "What the hell?"  
  
"I could call off the search teams now." She puts her hand back, this time a little higher up, her fingers stroking me. "It's up to you." Her gaze flickers up and down my body and she grins unpleasantly. "And I see you have a few ideas of how you might repay me."  
  
I step away from her. "I'm not interested, and Digger wouldn't thank me for it, anyway."  
  
She laughs and claps her hands. "Not interested? Oh, I think you may have to learn to get around that."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Nothing. I've just heard you have some sponsors in the Capitol who can't _wait_ for the Victory Tour to come through."  
  
I think of Drake, setting up dates while he was supposed to be collecting up sponsors. A picture starts to form in my head. I go cold. "Get out of my house."  
  
Her laugh dries up, and her voice becomes icy. "You don't want to do this, Abernathy."  
  
I turn away and look out the window again. I see motion toward the back of the garden -- a small figure near the fence.  
  
On the other side of the fence. The wire bends, and I see Digger start to climb.  
  
I try to get away from the window, to steer Beckett's attention anywhere else, but it's too late.  
  
She goes to the window. "Oh, dear. What's this? It looks like someone neglected to turn the fence on."  
  
I try to say something, but I can't. I pull off my shirt. "What you want… " I say. "I'll do…"  
  
She laughs at me and turns her back, pulling the communication device off her belt. "Headquarters? The fence seems to be off…"  
  
I don't stay to wait.  
  
I bolt for the back door and nearly leap down the steps.  
  
"Digger!" I yell. "Digger get down! Get _down!_ "  
  
I see her look up at the sound of my voice, but there's wind blowing through the grass and the trees and the plants, and instead of getting down, she stops about halfway up and looks at me, puzzled. She raises her hand -- _What?_  
  
The fence comes alive.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Digger's death, Haymitch slips further into despair, though his friends try to rally around him.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**  
I don't know how I live through the next four hours.

I try not to. I try to fling myself onto the fence beside Digger, but Peacekeepers hold me back. I watch her skin turn black and bubble. She never screams. She never had time to scream. Her heart must have stopped the second the current went through her, but they don't turn off the fence. No one gives an order to do it.  
  
Someone must have gone into town, because finally, the mayor arrives, and demands that we be allowed to get her down. Beckett claims that she had trouble reaching anyone, but miraculously manages to get through on the first try this time. The fence goes off.  
  
The Peacekeepers don't offer to assist in getting her down, not that I'd let them near her. I try to do it myself, but I lose any thin grip I had on reality when I try to move her hand and her finger comes off before she can be dislodged from the fence. She's been cooked on it.  
  
I keep trying, and she keeps falling apart in my hands, like a nightmare. I want it to be a nightmare. Something like this could only happen in the twisted parts of my mind. I try to wake myself up, but I cant. There's a horrible smell, and it's all over me.  
  
I finally let other people come to help. They say the fence needs to be cut. Beckett fumes about this. I hear her complain that it will take hours to string new wire. Someone, ignoring her completely, cuts the wires that have fused into Digger's body, and we lay her down on a gray tarp on the ground. They want to wrap her up. She's all over me, a kind of unspeakable sludge that's smeared over my body and my clothes. I lie down on the tarp and try to have them wrap me up with her.  
  
Danny pulls me away. I'm not strong enough to fight him. I'm not even trying to, except for trying to get back to Digger. He turns me around and punches me, and things go blessedly dark.  
  
When I come to, there's moonlight coming in through some window. I don't know where I am. I've been cleaned and put in new clothes. Danny is sitting across from me, and Ruth is beside me on a bed, wiping my forehead with a cool cloth.  Someone has washed me, but I can still smell Digger in air around me.  
  
"Where is she?" I ask.  
  
Ruth sighs and smooths my hair back. "Haymitch, they… she… she's gone."  
  
"What did they do with her?"  
  
"She's dead."  
  
"I know she's dead. I'm not crazy. Where is she?"  
  
"They took her to the Justice Building," Danny says. "The mayor is filing a complaint against the Peacekeepers. They can't bury her until it's been investigated."  
  
I blink. "Where am I?"  
  
"You're at the bakery," Danny says. "Well, upstairs. My dad's room. He said you could have it as long as you want. He'll sleep with Mom."  
  
I just accept this. Danny's parents are nice, but they're a little odd. I don't have much will to argue with my sleeping arrangements, anyway.  
  
"Anyway," Ruth says, "I told them it was a medical emergency, and we weren't leaving you alone. We couldn't stay with you in the Village, so we brought you here."  
  
I can't think of anything to say, so I say nothing. I remain awake. Ruth leaves after a little while, saying that she needs to get home. Danny stays with me. He asks if I need anything. I continue not saying anything.  
  
"She loved you a lot, you know," he says.  
  
I know this. She died because she loved me a lot. I look away.  
  
"And she knew you loved her. No matter what you were doing. She said it, while we were watching the Games."  
  
I blink. The ceiling gets a little blurry, but I don't cry.  
  
"I just… I figured you'd want to know that." He goes to the door. "I'll be right down the hall, just for a minute. My dad will bring you something to eat."  
  
I manage to say "Thanks," but he's already gone by the time it comes out.  
  
I close my eyes. I don't sleep. I don't want to risk dreaming. I let my thoughts drift. I remember that she said if she won, she wanted a red dress. I could have gotten her a red dress, at least.  
  
Maybe I eat what Mr. Mellark brings. I'm not sure. I don't see how I could. My head is still full of the smell of my wife burning. I have no idea what time it is when I cross the line between floating awake and being asleep. I dream of the arena again. Maysilee is dying again. Only this time, she keeps turning into Digger. _I only wanted a red dress,_ she says over and over, and she is covered in scarlet blood, spreading around her like a macabre gown.  
  
I wake up at dawn. The Mellarks are already up, getting the bakery ready for the day. I start to leave without saying goodbye, but Danny spots me, and his parents wave him out. He walks with me without talking, all the way back to Victor's Village. I go into my house. The window in the living room looks out on the garden, and on the investigating team at the fence.  
  
Danny runs around me and closes the curtains. I don't ever want them opened again.  
  
"Did you need something here?" he asks.  
  
I shake my head. Sit down on the couch. Wrap up in my blanket.  
  
Something is making a terrible racket in the study, ringing like hammers in my head. I blink. It's the telephone. I imagine that it's Snow, calling to tell me who's next on his list.  
  
I decide to answer. Better to behave. Better not to call down any more wrath.  
  
I practically sleepwalk into the study. Danny follows me. I pick up the phone and hit the speaker button, but I don't say anything. I can't think of anything to say.  
  
"Hello? Hello?" a woman's voice says.  
  
"He's here," Danny tells her. "He's, um…"  
  
"I'm here," I say.  
  
"Sweetheart, it's Gia. I saw the news. I've been trying to reach you since yesterday. Oh, honey."  
  
I blink. "Gia?"  
  
"Miss Pepper?" Danny says. "I don't know if he's good for the phone."  
  
"Of course not. Is there anything I can do? Anything?"  
  
Danny looks at me with an eyebrow raised.  
  
I want to tell her to get them to leave me alone. To roll things back so that Maysilee comes out of the arena instead of me. I don't think she can do either. It wouldn't be fair, anyway. I wouldn't wish this on Maysilee.  
  
"I guess not," Danny says. "I just --"  
  
"A dress," I say.  
  
Danny looks up.  
  
"What, honey?" Gia asks. "I didn't hear you."  
  
"A dress. For Digger. A bright red one. So bright that it almost glows."  
  
Gia doesn't argue. She doesn't point out that Digger will need to be poured into a dress, or that the dress will just be going underground. She just says, "I know just the one. There's actually a train scheduled this afternoon. I'll be on it. With the dress."  
  
"Thank you," I say, then I go quiet again. There's nothing else to say. Danny tells her that I'll be staying at the bakery, and tells her how to get there from the train station.  
  
Danny lets me be for a little while, then he helps me up to my room. I'm not hurt, but I'm hobbling like an old man. He gets me into my bed, then throws a blanket over me. He covers the windows that overlook the garden.  
  
"We'll get those bricked," he says.  
  
I nod and bury my face in my pillow.  
  
Danny lets me be alone. I cry. I think I do, anyway. Something is hurting my throat, and my face is wet, and I can't breathe right.  
  
Sae from the Community Home comes at lunchtime. I expect her to rage at me for all but pushing Digger into that fence, but she doesn't. She just comes in with a tray and forces some soup down my throat.  
  
Once it's down, she says, "They've asked me what I want done with the body."  
  
"She's my family. Put her with my family. But wait. Gia's bringing her a dress." I frown. "I have to call the man making the stone. They need to add her name."  
  
She sighs. "Haymitch, they've already said she's going to be buried in her own family's plot. With her parents. They just want to know when, and if we want to have a wake at the Community Home. Closed casket, of course."  
  
"I'm her family," I say. "And I don't want anyone dancing around her body. No wake."  
  
Sae nods. She leaves my room, and I hear her talking to Danny downstairs.  
  
I think about stone markers.  
  
I need to take care of her, this one last time.  
  
I make myself get out of bed. Go to my study. Call the undertaker named Hilarius, and order a simple stone with her parents' names and her name -- Indigo Hardy Abernathy. I insist on this, maybe too much, since he's not arguing with me. He doesn't give me trouble about anyone's name this time, either. I am about to hang up when he says, "Mr. Abernathy?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"We all… here in the Capitol… everyone's awfully sorry for everything that's happened to you since the Games."  
  
I frown, confused at this idea. He sounds sincere enough. But…  
  
I shake my head. "Thank you."  
  
He gives me a date for delivery of both stones, and promises to put a rush on them. We hang up.  
  
Danny has gone home, and Sae is here for the afternoon. At suppertime, Kay Donner and Merle Undersee take over, and stay until curfew, at which point they bundle me up in the mine cart Merle rents (he says conversationally that the mine foreman has let him have it "for as long as we need it") and take me back to the bakery. I sleep in Mr. Mellark's room again, but I'm really in the arena. Maysilee and I are crouched under our blanket, and she asks me to tell her about Digger. I tell her everything this time, but when I turn around to see if she's listening, her skin has started to bubble and slough off of her, and I can smell the high, sweet odor of cooking flesh.  
  
I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. The Mellarks take turns trying to get me to calm down, and I guess they finally must do it, because suddenly, it's morning, and I'm alone. I can smell bread baking downstairs.  
  
I go down. They are busy and don't notice me. They walk around each other efficiently, moving things from kneading to shaping, pulling them from the oven. The first customers of the day come -- a couple of mine supervisors who must have pooled their money, as they buy a fancy looking sweet pastry to take down to the mines with them. Danny winks and puts a sprinkle of extra sugar on it, then says, "Shh," like everyone in town didn't just see him do it. Mir Murphy comes next, with an order from the butcher. She flirts with Danny. He actually flirts back for some reason.  Business, I guess. She goes away with a loaf of bread and a bag of rolls. The Mellarks go on with their work. It's relaxing to watch it, my head empty.  
  
At least until the third customer comes in.  
  
Lucretia Beckett looks quite satisfied with herself. "Loaf of white bread," she says. "And one of the cinnamon raisin as well."  
  
Mrs. Mellark goes to the counter and puts up a sign that says, "Closed."  
  
"You don't want to do that," Beckett cautions.

This was what she said right before she turned on the fence.  I see her smiling.  Pressing the button on her comm device.  Killing whatever is in her way.  "Don't," I say.  
  
No one hears me.  
  
Danny's father straightens up at the kneading table and says, "You're not welcome in this shop, or any other in District Twelve." 

Beckett sneers. "Then every shop in District Twelve is going to be in a world of hurt." She looks over her shoulder. "Ask Abernathy here."  
  
"Leave them alone," I say.  
  
"Or what?''  
  
I don't know what's going to come out of my mouth. I haven't got the energy to be angry. I'm just tired and sick and worn down. My voice is completely flat. "I won the Hunger Games," I say. "And I'm about ten feet from a whole lot of knives."  
  
"They'd hang even a victor for that. They might hang you just for saying it."  
  
I advance on her. I feel like I'm in another nightmare about the arena. "At this point, do you really think I care?"  
  
She reaches for her comm device and presses a button on it. No one says anything.  No one dies. Beckett and I just stare at each other. The door opens and two other Peacekeepers come in. They grab my arms.  
  
Mr. Mellark comes around the counter. "You're not taking that boy from my house. He's our guest."  
  
The only discernable effect this has is that Beckett draws her gun on the Mellarks while I'm pulled toward the door. I try to signal them to stop fighting. Danny gets it. He pulls his father back, then follows the Peacekeepers out, peppering them with questions about just what they're doing, but not actually crossing the line into insubordination.  
  
There's a whipping post on the square. It's mostly used as a place for couples to carve their initials and their undying love for each other these days, but it still has what it needs. Beckett pulls the shackles down and fastens them around my wrists. I feel her yank off the flimsy shirt I wore to sleep in. My forehead is pressed up against the post. Beneath my face, among the tangles of initials, there is a rough mockingjay carved in the wood. Under it, I see the initials "MD." Where everyone else has put in their sweethearts' names, "MD" apparently loves "D12."  
  
Maysilee. I'm glad she's here with me, but not taking any pain from it.  
  
I should probably be afraid, but I'm not. It will hurt. I don't care. Maybe it will even kill me, and then Beckett will have to deal with whatever happens to her for killing a victor.  
  
Her hand runs down my spine. It's like being touched by a slug that's been soaking in hot saltwater. The pain will be preferable. I brace myself for it.  
  
"What exactly are you doing to my victor?"  
  
The voice comes out of nowhere -- high and angry. I look over my shoulder.  
  
Pelagia Pepper is standing on the road from the train station, a garment bag over her shoulder. She manages to look officiously indignant.  
  
"He threatened the lives of Peacekeepers," Beckett says.  
  
"And whatever might have prompted him to do _that?_ " Gia passes the garment bag to Danny and storms right past Beckett, ignoring her. She comes to the whipping post. The shackles apparently don't need keys, because she just presses a button and they release, letting my arms down. She squeezes my shoulder, then turns back on Beckett. "Explain yourself."  
  
"I don't need to explain anything to a glorified fashion model."  
  
Gia takes a few steps forward. "I am here on behalf of the Gamemakers, and the government of Panem."  
  
"The president gave me carte blanche to deal with District Twelve as I see fit."  
  
"You overstepped." She lowers her voice, so only Beckett and I could possibly hear her. "The house is bugged, Officer Beckett. We know what you did to him. That was _not_ within your authority, and the president is not pleased."  
  
At this, Beckett actually seems a little bit disturbed, but she sniffs disdainfully. "I've had plenty of experience with victors. I somehow doubt he's going to be treated as sacrosanct."  
  
Gia ignores this entirely. She raises her voice again. "You back off my victor, Officer Beckett, on the orders of the Gamemakers, or you're going to find yourself testing the mutts for next year's arena."  
  
Even the Peacekeepers know better than to contradict the Gamemakers. Beckett grimaces, then waves her hand impatiently, as though nothing on earth could be less important than my impending punishment. She walks away.  
  
Gia comes to me and puts her arms around me. I'm completely numb. I can't even feel her embrace. But I lean into it. I whisper in her ear, "You shouldn't have done that. You'll have trouble."  
  
"I can handle trouble," she says. "You let your friends take care of you now. I'll take care of everything else."  
  
I nod. I am too tired to do anything else.  
  
Danny leads me back to the bakery, and his mother puts me back to bed. I sleep for the rest of the day, and I don't hear any disturbances. When I wake up in the evening, I find out that Gia has put a push on the investigation into Digger's death, and insisted on the release of the body. She's dressed her in a fine red dress. I ask if I can see her in it. Gia doesn’t want me to, but doesn't forbid it. She takes me to a room in the sub-basement of the Justice Building.  
  
Digger is in a coffin which is more or less holding her together. There's a surprising amount of skin left on her face. It almost looks like her, except that it's a shade of dark, sooty gray. The red dress glows against it, like lava against ash. I want to kiss her goodbye, but I lose my nerve. If her lips fell off the way her finger did, I'd go insane.  
  
I just smooth back what's left of her hair. "I'm sorry," I whisper.  
  
She says nothing back. I close the coffin. She's buried the next day.  
  
Gia doesn't need to take care of this. My friends and Digger's do. She _does_ threaten to bring down the full weight of the Gamemakers on anyone who tries to film it. I wonder how much of this is in her actual authority and how much she's making up on the spot, but I don't dare ask.  
  
I don't try to speak at the funeral this time. It came out badly enough when I was sober, and I am nowhere near sober when Digger is put into the ground. I snuck back to my house and spent the entire morning drinking, and the best Gia's pills were able to do was keep me awake and on my feet. She found my token in the drawer of my desk, and cleaned it up for me to wear. I notice that there's a wound-through strand of red now, and I realize that it must have come from the grave dress. I don't know if it's morbid or comforting.  
  
I let her run my life for the next three weeks. It's a relief. She powers through the permits to have the back windows of my bedroom bricked up, and hires locally for the job. She lays out clothes for me in the morning and sees to it that I get out of bed and get dressed for at least a few hours. As a Capitol citizen, she's not required to leave Victors' Village at curfew, so she stays with me full time, and lets my friends in all day. I'm not aware of talking much to them, but they're apparently under instructions to be energetic and forceful with me.  
  
I start doing my own errands after a few days, as much in self-defense as anything else. At first, I'm barely present for these trips to town, and several times, I mistake Kay for Maysilee. Once, I see a crow flying near her, and I flash back to the pink birds in the arena. I kill it. I kill a sparrow the next day as well, and when I go into the sweet shop to apologize, I see a bright yellow bird in a cage, and I don't think it could be anything other than a mutt, being that bright. I have a knife in my boot and I try to skewer it. There's a lot of screaming about this, and Kay ends up taking the cage and running from me. I don't see it in the shop the next time I go in.  
  
I notice that Sae seems to be in my house a lot, helping Gia look after me. No one ever tells me, but I start to get the impression that she's been fired from her job as house mother at the Community Home. I find Daisy Conary -- the girl who liked Lacklen -- and ask her. She says it was because the Capitol found out that she was letting… someone… hunt. She hasn't found a job at the mines, either.  
  
As time passes, I start to come back to myself, at least enough to know that I don't want to be back in myself. Gia has to go home on the next train; she doesn't have leave to visit me long. I go to the station with her. She promises to see me for the victory tour, and reminds me to find a talent. "Not just for the Gamemakers," she tells me. "You need to fill your days."  
  
I promise her that I will, but I have no intention of keeping that promise. The only idea that keeps filling my days involves the oak tree in Duronda's garden. I don't tell any of my manic caretakers about this. They'll only go away if I convince them that I'm "on the mend," as Sae puts it.  
  
I stay awake most nights, once I convince them all that I'm perfectly sane, and imagine long conversations with Maysilee, curled up in our blanket. I tell her what I mean to do -- to break out of the arena for good. She tells me that I'll never get away with it.  
  
It's usually just before dawn when I go outside into the moonlight and walk the green down to Duronda's house. I examine the tree carefully several times, then go back and work on kinks in my plan. The biggest one is what will happen to the tributes next year. That's the only problem I can't seem to work my way around.  
  
When school begins again in the fall, my friends can't spend as much time with me. Danny urges me to come back and finish, but I have a feeling that it wouldn't be permitted. I tell him it _definitely_ wouldn't be, though I never bother to ask.  
  
I don't push them away. That only makes them more determined, and will end up with them dead. Instead, I let them get back to their lives -- their school days, their romances, their homework. At first, they make an effort to come up, but for the most part, I am outside of the normal shape of things for them, and the visits slowly dry up.  
  
I continue to visit the tree at night. I am good. I am compliant. Beckett does not visit me, though I gather from a few people that she's been throwing her weight around in town, whenever the merchants refuse to sell to her (which is frequent -- the Mellarks and the Donners are leading this, and I can't seem to talk them out of it). She must have decided that Gia's threats about doing anything to a victor were sincere. Even the regular patrols of the green have stopped, and the guards at the gate just stand there on the far side of it.  
  
The fall is unnaturally dry, what Mom always called "tinderbox weather." The grass crunches under my feet when I walk on the green during the day. I sometimes lie on the bench and wonder if I could just let myself dry up like the plants. It seems unlikely, considering how much I've been drinking.  
  
It's nearly October when I decide to go ahead and do it. Merle's been tying burlap around shrubs for the winter, and there's plenty of rope. I gather a solid length of it in the middle of the night, and I head over to Duronda's place. I leave my door wide open.  
  
The tree is strong and easy to climb, even with the rope over my shoulders. I climb as high as I can.  
  
From here, I can see all of Victors' Village, and if I turn, I can see a good part of the town. It's early dawn, and on the Seam, I can see people starting to move toward the mines. I can't hear anything from this distance, but I know they're all shouting to each other, bellowing greetings as they run to catch up with their friends. I know that the merchants are getting up as well, getting ready for the day. The Mellarks will be doing their quiet, efficient dance around the kitchen.  
  
I think about the scratched letters on the whipping post. "MD loves D12." Maysilee was nuts. She loved _me_ , if I need any further proof of this.  
  
I wrap the rope as securely as I can around the thickest branch. I take the other end, and realize that I have no idea at all how to tie a noose. I probably should have looked that up.  
  
It doesn't matter. Any loop tight enough to hold will do, if I drop fast enough.  
  
I fumble with the rope. It doesn't seem to want to get a tight grip. My hands are shaking. I close my eyes and try to gather myself up. The sun is getting higher. Pretty soon, the others will all be heading off for school, to talk about the symbolism of volcanoes.  
  
There's a flash of motion in the square. I can't tell who anyone is, but someone is shoved out in front of a pair of Peacekeepers, toward the center, where I know the whipping post stands.  
  
The first scream reaches even me.  
  
I look at the rope in my hands.  
  
_What are you doing?_  
  
It's not Maysilee's voice, or Mom's, or Lacklen's, or Digger's. It's my own. It's the horrified voice of the boy who stood in another tree last spring, staring down at the tarp he'd just scrounged to fix yet another problem in the roof. That tree is too far away to see, even from here, somewhere at the other end of the world.  
  
I stare at the rope. It seems like a snake, coiled in my hands.  
  
I take the end of it and climb back down, leaving it dangling, like a fuse.  
  
I go to my house and rummage in the kitchen until I find what I need, then I go back to the tree.  
  
And strike a match.

**The End**

 


End file.
